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>  ,*,     ,• 

MES.  HENTZ'S  WOEKS.  11 

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ph 
dr 


startling,  and  describes  the  warm  feelings  of  the  Southerner  in  glowing 
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12  MRS.   HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

fully  described;  and  the  interest  admirably  kept  up.  But  the  moral  of  the 
book  is  its  highest  merit.  The  'Planter's  Northern  Bride'  should  be  as 
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beauty,  as  to  render  it  every  way  worthy  the  author  of  'Linda,'  'Marcus 
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mitted to  bo  the  best  story  ever  written  for  a  newspaper.  That  was  certainly 
high  praise,  but  'Rena'  takes  precedence  even  of  its  predecessor,  and,  in 
both,  Mrs.  Lee  Hentz  has  achieved  a  triumph  of  no  ordinary  kind.  It  is  not 
that  old  associations  bias  our  judgment,  for  though  from  the  appearance, 
years  since,  of  the  famous  'Mob  Cap'  in  this  paper,  we  formed  an  exalted 
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to  this  best  of  our  female  writers.  The  two  last  productions  of  Mrs.  Lee 
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tatingly commend  'Rena,'  now  published  in  book  form,  in  beautiful  style, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson,  as  a  story  which,  in  its  varied,  deep,  and  thrilling  in- 
terest, has  no  superior." — American  Courier. 

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Published  and  for  Sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  102  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia 


ELLA  PLEADING  FOR  CLAUDE. 


THE  BANISHED  SON; 


Ot|tr  Stories  of  %  |)tiul 


BY  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ. 

AUTHOR   OF   "LOVE   AFTER   MAKRIAGK,"  "LINDA,"  "RENA,"   "ROBERT 
GRAHAM,"  "EOLLNE,""  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE,"  ETC. 


'  His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old, 

Mis  head  unmellowed,  but  his  judgment  ripe; 

And  in  a  word  (for  far  behind  his  worth, 

Come  all  thi;  praises  that  I  now  bestow), 

He  is  complete  in  feature,  and  in  mind, 

"With  all  good  gruce  to  grace  a  gentleman." — Shakspeare. 
'Innocence  unmoved 

At  a  false  accusation,  doth  the  more 

Confirm  itself;  and  guilt  is  best  discovered 

By  its  own  fears."— Nabb. 


JJ  Ij  i  I  a  ft  1 1  p  I)  i  a : 

T.  B.  PETERSON,  NO.  102  CHESTNUT  STREET 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

T.   B.    PETERSON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


T.  K.  ft  P.  G.  COLLINS,    PRINTERS. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  BANISHED  SON, Page  17 

WILD  JACK;  OR,  THE  STOLEN  CHILD,         ...  47 

BELL  AND  ROSE C5 

THE  LITTLE  BROOM  BOY, Ill 

SELIM ;  AN  ORIENTAL  TALE, 139 

HOWARD,  THE  APPRENTICE  BOY,        ....         157 

THE  BLACK  MASK, 165 

A  TALE  OF  THE  LAND  OF  FLOWERS,  .        .        .         180 

MAGNOLIA  LEAVES,  .        .        .        .        .        .        .191 

THE  PARADISE  OF  THE  DEAD, 253 

THE  SEX  OF  THE  SOUL,  266 

A  TRIP  TO  THE  BAY,      .        .  .  271 


2056681 


**. 

'**" 


THE 


BANISHED     SON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  OH  !  that  uncle  would  forgive  him  \" 

Thus  ejaculated  a  young  girl,  as  she  sat,  with  her  hands 
folded  over  her  knees,  by  the  side  of  a  waning  fire. 

"  What  a  sad,  sad  evening  this  has  been  to  me,  though  all 
the  while  I  have  been  compelled  to  smile  and  look  happy  !" 

There  was  certainly  nothing  in  the  apartment  in  which  she 
was  seated  that  seemed  congenial  with  sadness.  It  was  a  large 
and  splendidly  illuminated  room,  richly  carpeted  and  furnished, 
and,  from  the  flowers,  which  not  only  decorated  the  vases,  but 
hung  in  gay  festoons  around  the  walls,  it  had  evidently  been 
adorned  for  some  festive  occasion.  Rare  and  beautiful  flowers 
they  were,  mostly  green-house  blossoms,  relieved  by  the  dark 
evergreens  with  which  they  were  entwined,  for  the  flowers  of 
summer  were  long  since  faded  and  gone. 

Though  the  fire,  by  which  the  young  girl  was  seated,  was 
now  nothing  more  than  a  heap  of  glowing  embers,  it  had 
lately  burned  with  intense  heat,  so  that  every  corner  of  that 
large  apartment  was  filled  with  the  genial  warmth  of  the  tropic 
latitudes.  The  dress  of  the  young  girl,  who  sat  so  lonely  and 
dejected  in  the  midst  of  those  gay  garlands,  was  in  keeping 
with  the  festive  character  of  the  scene.  A  robe  of  white 
gauze,  falling  in  transparent  folds  over  a  rich  under-dress  of 
satin,  gave  that  gossamer  grace  to  her  figure  which  airy  drapery 
alone  can  impart.  A  wreath  of  white  roses — mimic,  it  is 
true,  but  so  exquisitely  natural  one  could  almost  see  the  petals 
curl  and  tremble  amidst  the  tresses  they  adorned — 

C") 


18  PERCY;  OR, 

around  her  brow,  confining  the  light-brown  ringlets  which  fell, 
unshorn  and  untutored,  even  to  her  waist.  What  a  contrast 
her  gala  dress  and  mournful  attitude  presented  !  That  floral 

farland,  and  those  sad,  dark  blue  eyes,  all  swimming  in  tears  ! 
he  looked  wistfully  at  the  clock.  Its  solemn,  continuous 
ticking,  sounded  mournfully  in  the  solitude.  It  was  a  machine 
of  elegant  workmanship,  representing,  on  its  gilded  pedestal, 
one  of  the  most  interesting  scenes  in  the  history  of  the  Horatii 
and  Curiatii.  Directly  ;.n  the  foreground  the  father  of  the 
Horatii  was  standing  with  an  air  of  stern  majesty,  the  swords 
of  his  three  sons  grasped  in  his  right  hand,  which  he  was 
elevating  towards  Heaven.  He  seemed  to  be  consecrating 
those  warlike  weapons  to  a  holy  purpose,  and  calling  down 
the  blessing  of  the  gods  on  the  enterprise  to  which  he  had 
devoted  his  sons.  The  dignity,  the  inflexibility  of  the  Roman, 
spoke  in  every  lineament.  One  could  read  on  those  firm  and 
nobly-formed  lips  the  spirit  that  dictated  the  magnanimous 
expression,  "  Qu'il  mourut,"  when  he  believed  his  last  survi- 
ving son  a  fugitive  and  a  coward.  There  was  a  fascination  in 
that  figure  to  her,  whose  eyes  were  now  gazing  upon  it.  The 
light  of  the  lamps  glittered  on  its  surface,  and  it  came  out 
resplendently  in  its  lustre.  She  thought  of  Roman  fathers — 
how  stern  and  inflexible  they  were — of  Brutus,  the  avenging 
judge  of  his  own  sons;  of  Manlius,  condemning  to  an  igno- 
minious death  the  brave  and  gallant  youth  who  had  come  to 
lay  the  trophies  of  his  valour  at  his  father's  feet. 

11  Oh !  that  fathers  should  be  so  stern  and  unforgiving !" 
she  exclaimed,  the  image  of  an  unrelenting  American  father 
resting  darkly  on  her  remembrance. 

The  door  opened  very  slowly  and  gently — so  slowly  that  it 
seemed  turning  on  invisible  hinges — and  a  young  man,  wrap- 
ped in  a  dark  travelling  cloak,  with  his  hat  deeply  shading  his 
brows,  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"  Ella,"  uttered  he,  in  a  low  voice ;  and  the  young  girl 
started  as  if  touched  with  electric  fire. 

"  Oh  !  Claude,  Claude,  is  it  you  ?"  she  cried,  and  the  next 
moment,  regardless  of  the  roses  she  was  crushing,  the  beautiful 
gauze  folds  she  was  disordering,  she  was  weeping  on  his 
shoulder,  half-enveloped  in  the  folds  of  that  dark,  heavy  cloak. 

"  How  pale  you  are,  dear  Claude,"  she  at  length  exclaimed, 
"  and  how  cold !"  and,  drawing  him  gently  to  the  fire,  she 
assisted  him  to  unclasp  his  cloak ;  arid,  then  stirring  the  dying 
embers  till  they  glowed  with  cheering  redness,  she  sat  down 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  19 

by  his  side,  and,  taking  his  chilled  hand  in  hers,  gazed 
earnestly  in  his  face. 

"How  beautiful  you  are  to-night,  Ella!"  said  he;  "and 
how  adorned !"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness. 

"  This  is  all  mockery — nothing  but  mockery,"  cried  she, 
pulling  off  the  roses  from  her  hair,  and  casting  them  at  her 
feet.  "  They  dressed  me  for  my  birth-day  ball,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  submit.  Uncle  would  have  it  so,  and  I  could  not 
help  hoping  he  intended  to  make  this  a  night  of  reconciliation 
and  joy.  Oh  !  that  he  were  less  kind  to  me,  or  less  cruel  to 
you.  I  want  to  hate  him,  and  he  will  not  let  me." 

"  I  have  deserved  punishment  for  folly  and  disobedience — 
sin,  if  they  will  have  it  BO — but  banishment  from  home, 
banishment  from  you,  Ella — oh !  it  is  hard.  I  am  not  a 
second  Cain,  that  I  should  be  driven,  an  alien,  from  my 
father's  house." 

And  the  youth  rose  up  suddenly,  and  walked  about  the 
room,  struggling  with  his  wretchedness. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go,  never  to  return.  In  little  more  than  an 
hour  from  this  I  shall  be  wending  my  way,  I  know  not,  care 
not  whither.  Disowned,  banished,  threatened  with  maledic- 
tion if  I  remain  longer  near  the  home  I  have  disgraced,  I  care 
not  what  becomes  of  me.  Fool,  maniac  that  1  have  been,  I 
might  have  anticipated  all  this — I  might  have  known  that  I 
had  a  Roman  father  to  deal  with.  But,  thoughtless  of  the 
past,  reckless  of  the  future,  I  have  rushed  on  to  ruin.  Ella, 
my  cousin,  my  sister,  my  more  than  sister,  can  I;  must  I  part 
from  you  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  cried,  clinging  to  him  as  if  her  arms  had 
power  to  shield  him  from  the  doom  that  hung  over  him,  "  you 
shall  not  go.  Your  father  cannot  mean  it.  He  does  not  will 
it.  I  will  go  to  him  this  moment,  and,  rousing  him  from  his 
night-sleep,  I  will  kneel,  weep,  pray  before  him,  till  he  relent 
aud  forgive.  How  dares  he  think  of  sleep  when  he  has  made 
us  both  so  wretched?  Come  with  me,  Claude;  kneel  and 
pray  with  me.  He  cannot  resist  our  united  prayers." 

"  It  is  in  vain,  Ella/'  he  answered,  a  dark  shadow  gathering 
over  his  face ;  "  I  have  already  humbled  myself  in  the  dust 
before  him,  and  he  spurned  me.  Never  again,  even  to  my 
own  father,  will  I  degrade  myself  thus.  I  would  meet  banish- 
ineut,  poverty,  suffering,  even  death  itself,  before  I  would 
expose  myself  a  second  time  to  such  humiliation.  Nay,  Ella, 
put  down  that  lamp  ;  you  cannot  avert  my  doom." 


20  PERCY:  OR, 

But  Ella  would  not  hear.  With  the  lamp  glimmering  in  her 
band,  and  her  white  silvery -looking  robes  fluttering  like  the  wings 
of  a  snowy  bird,  she  flew  rather  than  ran  up  the  long  winding 
stairs,  that  led  to  the  chamber  of  Mr.  Percy.  In  her  excite- 
ment, she  forgot  to  open  the  door  softly,  and  it  swung  heavily 
on  the  hinges.  Mr.  Percy  was  not  asleep.  How  could  he 
.  sleep,  when  he  had  doomed  his  only  son  to  banishment  ?  No  ! 
his  was  the  restless  couch  and  the  thorny  pillow  :  but  his  was 
also  the  unconquerable  will — the  proud,  unyielding  temper. 
The  decree  had  gone  forth,  and  he  would  not  change  it,  though 
his  heart-strings  should  snap  in  the  struggle. 

Raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  he  gazed  with  a  bewildered 
countenance  on  the  youthful  intruder.  A  strange  apparition 
in  the  chamber  of  that  stern,  dark  man !  Rich  curtains  of 
crimson  damask  shaded  the  bed,  and  threw  a  kind  of  glow  on 
the  pale  and  haggard  countenance  of  the  occupant.  His  com- 
plexion looked  still  more  sallow  in  contrast  with  the  snowy 
white  of  the  pillow,  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  sable  hair, 
as  yet  only  partially  threaded  with  silver,  that  hung  over  his 
temples.  Ella  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  bed-side, 
and  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping.  His  conscience 
told  him  her  errand,  and  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  harsh,  hurried 
tone : 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  like  not  to  be  disturbed. 
I  have  tried  to  make  you  happy  to-night.  Go  away,  child, 
and  let  me  sleep."  Sleep !  she  could  have  said  : 

"  There's  a  voice  in  all  the  house 
Cries,  '  Sleep  no  more — Macbeth  has  murdered  sleep.' " 

"  Oh !  uncle,  forgive  Claude  and  let  him  stay ;  I  cannot 
see  him  go  ;  I  shall  die  of  grief,  if  you  cast  him  away  from 
you.  You  cannot  be  in  earnest,  uncle ;  you  are  only  trying 
him.  Say  so,  and  I  will  bless  you  on  my  knees,  till  the 
latest  day  of  my  life." 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  jesting  man  ?"  cried  he,  drawing  away 
the  hand  she  had  grasped  in  the  energy  of  speaking.  "  I  ain 
indeed  in  earnest,  as  that  unhappy  boy  will  soon  know  to  his 
cost." 

"  Oh  !  uncle,  he  has  suffered  enough  already ;  you  know 
he  has.  Had  he  committed  murder,  forgery,  any  crime,  you 
might  have  disowned  him  ;  but " 

"  Crime !"  repeated  the  indignant  father,  sweeping  back  the 


THE   BANISHED   SON.  21 

curtain  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  pushing  away  the 
heavy  locks  from  his  brow,  while  his  eyes  flashed  luridly. 
"  Had  he  committed  murder  in  the  madness  of  passion,  I 
could  have  forgiven  him,  and  kept  him  near  my  heart,  though 
his  hand  were  reddened  with  blood.  Had  he  committed  for- 
gery in  a  moment  of  temptation,  I  could  have  forgiven  even 
that.  But  to  go  against  warning  and  command — to  herd  with 
a  company  of  vile  vagabonds — to  follow  them  to  their  haunts 
of  wickedness — to  adopt  their  profession — to  become  one 
among  them,  heart  and  soul — to  suffer  his  name,  my  name — • 
the  name  of  Percy — to  be  placarded  in  every  corner  of  the 
street,  for  the  vulgar  to  gaze  upon,  and  the  wise  to  sneer  at — 
the  author  of  such  a  disgrace  never  shall  be  forgiven.  Away, 
and  disturb  me  no  more." 

Ella  rose  from  her  knees.  The  tears  seemed  frozen  in  her 
heart.  She  had  entered  the  chamber  with  a  wrestling  spirit 
— the  spirit  that  spoke  through  Jacob,  when  he  said  unto  the 
angel,  "  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  unless  thou  bless  me."  Alas  ! 
she  had  no  angel  to  contend  with — but  a  proud,  unconquerable 
man — a  man  whose  family  pride  had  received  a  deep  and  im- 
medicable wound.  With  a  look  of  hopeless  dejection,  of 
sullen,  passive  endurance,  she  turned  from  that  sleepless  bed 
of  down,  and  descended  the  winding  stairs.  She  was  no 
longer  the  bird,  winging  its  upward  flight.  She  was  the 
snail,  dragging  itself  wearily  along.  The  spring  of  hope  was 
gone,  and  a  leaden  weight  held  back  her  steps. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Claude,  turning  of  ashy  paleness;  for, 
in  spite  of  his  assertion  to  the  contrary,  he  had  cherished  a 
secret  hope  from  her  intercession.  "  I  told  you,  you  would 
plead  in  vain." 

Ella,  overpowered  by  disappointment  and  sorrow,  leaned  in 
tearless  anguish  on  the  shoulder  of  Claude,  who  pressed  her 
in  silence  to  his  breast.  She  felt  that  deadly  sickness  of  soul, 
which  precedes  the  final  separation  from  the  object  most 
loved  on  earth.  They  had  been  brought  up  under  the  same 
roof,  protected  by  the  same  guardian — both  were  brotherless 
and  sisterless — how  could  they  help  loving  each  other  ? 

"  Oh  !  that  I  were  a  boy,"  she  cried ;  "  then  I  would  go 
with  you,  Claude,  preferring  poverty  and  exile  with  you, 
to  all  you  leave  behind.  I  would  share  all  your  trials ;  and 
heavy  ones  will  they  be,  poor  Claude  !  Whither  will  you  go  ? 
What  will  you  do  ?  But  promise  me,  Claude,  whatever  you 


22  PERCY;  OR, 

do,  you  will  never  go  back  to  scenes  my  uncle  so  much 
abhors.  He  will  yet  pardon  and  recall  you — I  feel,  I  know, 
he  will." 

11  No,  Ella,  there  is  no  hope  of  that ;  but  be  assured,  to 
whatever  extremities  I  may  be  driven,  I  shall  never  resort  to 
that  expedient.  If  you  ever  hear  of  me  again,  it  shall  be 
with  honourable  mention.  Whither  I  shall  go,  what  I  shall 
do,  I  know  not.  I  shall  just  float  along  the  tide  of  circum- 
stances, and  perchance  the  wanderer  may  find  some  green  spot 
to  rest  upon.  I  do  not  fear  want,  for  my  father's  son  has  not 
been  sent  away  entirely  destitute.  I  shall  work  out  my  own 
destiny,  and  something  tells  me,  that  in  manhood,  I  shall  re- 
deem the  faults  and  follies  of  my  youth.  Ella,  dear  Ella,  do 
not  weep  so  bitterly  !  I  am  not  worthy  such  tears.  In  this 
moment,  I  feel  all  the  madness  of  which  I  have  been  guilty. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  my  father  disowns  me.  I  deserve  to 
be  an  outcast." 

The  clock  struck  one.  Claude  started,  as  if  a  knell  tolled 
on  his  ear.  It  was  the  signal  for  his  departure — for  the  stage 
that  was  to  bear  him  away,  must  even  then  be  waiting  at  the 
hotel,  where  his  trunks  were  already  carried. 

"  You  will  write  to  me,  Claude ;  wherever  you  may  be,  you 
will  write  and  tell  me  of  your  welfare  ?  Remember  it  will  be 
all  I  shall  live  for  now." 

"Yes,  Ella,  as  soon  as  I  find  a  home."  His  voice  fal- 
tered with  deep  emotion.  "One  promise,  Ella:  be  kind, 
be  loving  still  to  my  father.  Do  not  resent  my  banishment; 
and  should  Nature  resume  its  empire  in  his  heart,  and  he  re- 
member with  sorrow  his  alien  son,  then  comfort  him,  Ella,  for 
my  sake.  Tell  him  that  I  love  him  still,  and  that  my  life's 
struggle  shall  be  to  prove  myself  worthy  of  the  name  I  bear. 
Farewell,  Ella !  sister,  cousin,  friend,  dearer,  a  thousand  times 
dearer,  than  all  these  precious  names  to  my  heart — but  how 
dear,  I  never  knew  till  this  bitter  moment." 

Incapable  of  speaking,  Ella  lay  sobbing  in  his  arms.  Stoop- 
ing down,  he  kissed  the  pale  cheek  that  rested  almost  uncon- 
sciously on  his  breast,  while  hot,  scalding  tears,  that  could  no 
longer  be  repressed,  gushed  from  his  eyes.  To  leave  the  home 
of  his  father,  the  companion  of  his  childhood,  to  go  out  into 
the  cold  world,  friendless  and  alone,  not  knowing  what  ills  he 
must  endure,  with  what  storms  he  must  battle,  with  what  ene- 
mies he  must  contend — and  to  feel,  too,  that  all  this  was  the 
consequence  of  his  own  disobedience  and  folly — it  was  a  bit- 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  23 

ter,  bitter  thought.  With  a  desperate  effort,  he  released  him- 
self from  the  clasp  of  those  fair,  clinging  arms,  placed  her 
gently  on  the  sofa,  and  rushed  from  the  house.  The  faint 
light  of  the  night  lamp  in  his  father's  chamber,  glimmered 
through  the  window  and  streamed  across  his  path.  The  un- 
happy youth  paused.  It  seemed  that  all  beyond  that  ray  was 
darkness  and  desolation ;  and  yet  it  threw  a  solitary  gleam 
of  brightness  on  the  parting  hour.  It  might  be  an  omen  of 
future  forgiveness.  Softened,  melted  into  even  womanly  ten- 
derness, and  filled  with  remorse  at  the  memory  of  his  dis- 
obedience, he  knelt  on  that  illuminated  spot,  and  bowed  his 
head  in  penitence  and  humility,  even  as  if  he  were  prostrated 
at  his  father's  feet. 

"  Father,  Ella,  farewell,"  he  cried,  and  starting  up,  dashed 
the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  became  a  wanderer  from  his  native 
home. 

And  what  was  the  offence  for  which  he  was  thus  suffering  so 
severe  a  penalty  ?  To  explain  this,  we  must  go  back  to  Claude's 
earlier  youth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MR.  PERCY  was  a  man  of  sovereign  aristocracy.  He  had 
the  three-fold  aristocracy  of  birth,  wealth,  and  talents.  The 
very  name  of  Percy  had  an  ancestral  sound,  and  breathed  of 
noble  blood.  Called  to  sit  in  the  high  places  of  the  land,  and 
to  act  a  conspicuous  part  in  his  country's  capital,  he  had  but 
little  leisure  to  devote  to  the  education  of  his  son,  who  was 
the  object  of  his  pride,  even  more  than  his  affection.  He  was 
an  only  son,  and  consequently  the  future  representative  of 
his  name  and  fame ;  and,  as  if  Nature,  in  this  instance,  waa 
determined  to  gratify,  to  the  utmost,  a  father's  pride,  she  had 
endowed  the  youth  with  her  most  splendid  gifts.  Of  extra- 
ordinary personal  beauty,  brilliant  talents,  the  most  graceful 
and  engaging  manners,  in  the  brightness  of  life's  morning 
hours  he  gave  promise  of  a  glorious  noon.  At  college,  he 
was  called  the  admirable  Crichton,  so  wonderful  was  the  ver- 
satility of  his  talents,  the  ease  with  which  he  could  master 
the  most  difficult  and  abstruse  sciences. 


24  PERCY;  OR, 

Mr.  Percy  exulted  in  the  reputation  of  his  son,  but  he  knew 
nothing  of  his  heart.  He  had  not  time  for  that.  Proud,  cold, 
dignified,  and  reserved,  his  demeanor  repelled  the  sunny  spirit 
of  Claude.  It  played  over  the  cold,  polished  surface  of  hi? 
father's  character,  like  sunbeams  on  steel.  The  heart  was  re- 
pelled— the  light  only  received.  The  only  person  who  really 
knew  the  heart  of  Claude,  was  his  young  cousin,  Ella,  the 
orphan  child  of  Mr.  Percy's  youngest  and  favourite  sister. 
The  young  Ella,  too,  was  the  only  one  who  had  found  the 
avenue  to  the  warm  corner  of  Mr.  Percy's  pride-mailed  bosom. 
She,  alone,  dared  to  sport  with  this  august  personage.  As 
the  young  vine,  frolicking  round  the  ancient  oak — the  bright, 
tender  moss  enamelling  the  cold,  dark  rock — she  twined  her- 
self round  the  pillar  of  his  pride,  and  made  it  beautiful  with 
the  garland  of  innocence  and  youth.  She  was  so  confiding, 
so  loving,  and  so  gay,  she  must  have  something  to  love  and 
play  about ;  and  when  Claude  was  absent  at  college,  and  her 
uncle  resting  from  his  official  duties,  it  was  a  necessity  of 
her  ardent  nature  to  lavish  upon  him  the  tenderness  that  was  well- 
ing in  her  heart.  But  during  the  long  vacations,  when  Claude 
was  restored  to  his  home,  what  a  paradise  it  was  to  her !  To 
say  that  she  loved  her  cousin,  would  convey  but  a  faint  idea 
of  the  feelings  she  cherished  for  him.  It  was  more  than  love  j 
it  was  worship — idolatry — which,  though  indulged  with  all 
the  innocence  and  unconsciousness  of  childhood,  and  expressed 
with  all  the  ingenuousness  of  a  sister's  affection,  had,  never- 
theless, all  the  strength  and  intensity  of  passion. 

During  the  long  holidays,  Claude,  whose  spirits  often  wildly 
effervesced,  "  sought  out  many  inventions"  to  wing  away  the 
hours.  One  of  his  favourite  amusements  was  to  get  up  private 
theatricals,  in  which  Ella  and  himself  acted  very  distinguished 
parts.  He  was  a  passionate  lover  of  the  drama,  and,  with  a 
wonderful  power  of  imitation,  could  catch  the  tones,  looks,  and 
gestures  of  the  heroes  of  the  stage.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  these  scenes  were  enacted  in  the  presence  of  the  stately 
Mr.  Percy — but,  after  supper,  he  generally  went  abroad,  and 
they  had  ample  scope  for  their  dramatic  taste.  All  the  old 
family  trunks  were  ransacked  for  their  stage  costume,  and 
most  ancestral-looking  garments  were  brought  forth,  and,  with 
a  little  modification,  converted  into  royal  robes,  and  the  proper 
paraphernalia  of  Melpomene  and  Thalia.  Their  young  friends 
delighted  to  gather  on  these  occasions,  and  never  did  more 
spontaneous  applause  shake  with  thundering  echoes  the  walls 


THE   BANISHED   SON.  25 

of  Castle  Garden,  than  resounded  through  the  hall  they  had 
selected  for  their  theatrical  exhibitions. 

Ella  sometimes  objected  to  Claude's  choice  of  characters, 
and,  though  he  was  rather  despotic,  he  was  obliged  to  submit 
to  her  caprice  or  judgment.  He  must  not  take  the  part  of 
King  Lear,  as  it  made  him  look  too  old  and  crazy ;  he  must 
not  be  Othello,  for  it  would  be  too  horrible  to  blacken  and 
disfigure  his  beautiful  face ;  but  Romeo — the  handsome,  youth- 
ful, and  impassioned  Romeo — that  was  the  character  which, 
more  than  all  others,  she  loved  to  see  him  perform.  With 
his  cap,  shaded  with  long,  white  feathers,  drooping  over  his 
classic  brow,  his  dark-brown  waving  hair  so  romantically 
arranged,  and  his  eyes  beaming  with  all  the  poetry  of  love, 
nothing  could  be  so  graceful  and  beautiful  as  Claude. 

Ella  made  a  bewitching  little  Juliet,  but  she  often  forgot 
her  character  in  admiration  of  Claude ;  and,  even  in  the  vaults 
of  the  Capulets,  when  her  eyes  should  have  seemed  sealed  in 
everlasting  slumber,  the  dark-blue  orbs  would  furtively  open 
to  gaze  upon  her  Romeo.  Little  did  they  think  that  these 
gala  evenings  of  their  youth  were  to  change  the  whole  colour 
of  their  destiny. 

Once,  when  Claude  was  representing  Macbeth  in  all  his 
majesty,  and  the  servants,  dressed  like  witches,  with  long 
brooms,  were  dancing  round  a  large  marble  basin,  which  was 
supposed  to  a  boiling  cauldron,  where  many  an  "  eye  of  gnat 
and  tongue  of  toad"  were  simmering  and  cooking;  and  Ella, 
with  a  regal-looking  turban  surmounting  her  childish  head, 
was  peeping  behind  a  long,  green  curtain — the  door  opened, 
and  Mr.  Percy  entered.  The  Ghost  of  Banquo,  with  his  gory 
locks  and  blood-stained  brow,  rising  up  at  the  royal  banquet, 
was  not  more  appalling  than  this  unexpected  apparition.  The 
crimson  turban  of  Lady  Macbeth  plunged  into  the  darkness 
of  the  curtain,  the  servants  scampered  away,  dropping  their 
brooms  as  they  ran.  Claude  alone  stood  his  ground,  like  a 
king,  and  confronted,  with  undaunted  mien,  his  father's 
wrathful  glance. 

What  a  scene  for  the  ultra-majestic  statesman  !  who  never 
deviated  from  the  perpendicular  line  of  formality  in  the  most 
common  affairs  of  life — whose  household  concerns  were  always 
conducted  with  the  severest  accuracy  and  the  most  rigid  dis- 
cipline— and  who,  above  all,  had  the  most  sovereign  contempt 
and  aversion  for  theatrical  exhibitions. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  vulgar  revelry — this  scene 
119 


26  PERCY ]   OR, 

of  tumult  and  chaos  ?"  exclaimed  he,  in  a  voice  like  low 
thunder.  "  How  dare  you,  young  man,  convert  your  father's 
hall  into  a  scene  of  theatrical  riot  ?" 

Giving  the  marble  basin  a  violent  push,  that,  heavy  as  it 
was,  sent  it  whizzing  across  the  floor,  he  approached  his  offend- 
ing son,  but,  forgetting  the  witches'  brooms  in  the  way,  the 
stately  statesman  nearly  stumbled  to  the  "ground.  This  gave 
the  crown  to  his  anger,  and  it  was  terrible  to  behold.  But 
Claude's  dauntless  spirit  quailed  not.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
his  father,  or  of  any  human  being.  He  was  too  ingenuous, 
brave,  self-relying,  to  know  aught  of  "  that  dark  dweller  of 
the  household,"  so  thrillingly  described  in  Zauoni.  As  well 
might  the  sunbeam  fear  the  rock  or  the  ruin  on  which  its 
brightness  falls.  He  stood,  with  his  royal  robes  folded  over 
his  breast — his  brow,  which  "  the  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown 
had  on,"  proudly  elevated — and  his  beautiful,  resolute,  dark 
eyes,  fixed  upon  his  father's  face.  That  look  and  attitude 
would  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  professed  actor. 

Poor  little  Ella  could  not  listen  in  silence  to  this  denun- 
ciation against  her  beloved  Claude.  She  rushed  from  behind 
the  curtain,  pulling  it  down  in  her  haste,  thus  displaying  all 
the  mysteries  of  their  craft,  and,  falling  on  her  knees  before 
her  uncle,  exclaimed,  with  true  tragic  pathos  : 

"  Oh,  uncle,  do  not  be  angry  with  Claude.  I  am  more  to 
blame  than  he  is.  I  urged  him  to  it — indeed  I  did.  But  I 
never  dreamed  of  your  coming  home,  dear  uncle — indeed  I 
did  not." 

"  So  it  is  only  in  my  presence  you  think  of  conducting  with 
propriety,  is  it  ?  Go  to  your  room,  Ella,  this  moment :  you 
are  nothing  but  a  foolish,  little  girl,  and  may,  perhaps,  be 
pardoned,  if  this  prove  the  last  offence.  But  remember  the 
condition — the  last !" 

Lady  Macbeth,  gathering  up  her  long,  sweeping  train,  stole 
slowly  from  the  room,  casting  a  piteous  glance  at  Claude, 
which  changed  to  vivid  admiration  as  she  beheld  the  bold 
beauty  of  his  countenance. 

The  scene  which  followed  was  one  in  which  passion  and 
pride  struggled  for  mastery ;  but  pride  at  length  prevailed. 
Mr.  Percy  felt  that  it  was  undignified  to  scold,  and  when  his 
anger  was  somewhat  abated,  he  condescended  to  reason  with 
his  son.  Had  he  done  it  more  calmly,  more  gently,  he  might 
have  exercised  more  influence.  But  family  pride,  the  idol  he 
set  up  for  his  worship,  Claude  cared  no  more  for  than  the 


THE   BANISHED   SON.  27 

image  of  Nebuchadnezzar's  dream,  with  its  legs  of  iron  and 
its  feet  of  clay.  Mr.  Percy  commanded  him  never  to  enter 
the  walls  of  a  theatre — never  again  to  turn  the  leaves  of 
Shakspeare,  or  to  have  anything  to  do  with  dramatic  exhi- 
bitions, either  public  or  private.  He  deemed  this  command 
sufficient,  for  the  thought  that  his  positive  commands  could 
be  disobeyed  never  glanced  into  his  mind.  This  folly  had  not 
been  anticipated — therefore,  not  prohibited ;  but,  once  dis- 
covered and  forbidden,  he  felt  as  if  a  flaming  sword  guarded 
the  majesty  of  his  law.  But,  unfortunately,  the  master  pas- 
sion of  Claude  only  gained  strength  from  opposition.  His  love 
of  the  drama  became  a  monomania,  and,  in  spite  of  his  stern 
father's  prohibition,  he  not  only  visited  the  theatre,  but  fre- 
quented the  green-room,  and  became  acquainted  with  some 
very  dangerous  and  fascinating  characters.  One  of  these, 
who  was  about  to  take  command  of  an  itinerant  company, 
having  witnessed  a  specimen  of  Claude's  astonishing  dramatic 
talents,  resolved  to  secure  him  as  the  new  star  of  the  season. 
It  was  not  without  much  hesitation  that  young  Claude  con- 
sented to  take  so  bold  a  step,  but  the  tempter  was  eloquent, 
and  his  own  misguided  imagination  was  a  more  eloquent 
tempter  still.  His  father  was  absent  on  a  long  journey  ;  but 
Ella,  his  sweet  cousin  Ella,  should  he  leave  her,  without  con- 
fiding to  her  his  secret  expedition  ?  Yes,  it  must  be  done  ; 
for,  were  she  the  confidant  of  his  purpose,  she  would  be  the 
sharer  of  his  parental  anger,  which  he  well  knew  would  fall 
upon  his  head,  but  which  he  rashly  dared  to  brave. 

The  sequel  is  already  known.  The  wrath  of  Mr.  Percy, 
when  he  learned,  through  the  public  papers,  that  his  son,  his 
heir,  a  Percy,  had  come  before  the  world  as  an  actor,  cannot 
be  described.  When  the  young  prodigal,  weary  of  the  false 
glitter  of  the  artificial  life  which,  in  the  distance,  seemed  so 
alluring,  dreading  reproach  and  wrath,  because  he  knew  he 
merited  them,  yet  confident  of  ultimate  forgiveness,  returned 
to  his  father's  house,  it  was  only  to  be  sent  forth  again  in 
banishment  and  disgrace.  The  magnificent  ball,  given  on 
Ella's  sixteenth  birth-day,  was  celebrated  by  Mr.  Percy's 
orders,  in  contrast  to  Claude's  degradation.  Ella,  hoping,  be- 
lieving all  things,  imagined  that  her  uncle  had  prepared  this 
brilliant  festival,  that  he  might  restore  his  son  to  favour, 
without  the  embarrassment  of  a  private  reconciliation.  Alas  ! 
she  knew  not  the  man. 

Let  us  follow  the  young  exile.     Waked  from  his  feverish 


28  PERCY;  OR, 

dream  of  excitement,  he  sees,  by  the  cold,  gray  light  of  dawn- 
ing reason,  the  rough  realities  of  the  future.  Like  our  first 
parents  driven  from  the  garden  of  Eden,  "all  the  world 
before  him  lay."  But,  had  he  taken  Providence  as  his 
guide  ?  In  the  sunshine  of  prosperity  he  had  forgotten  its 
guiding  cloud,  and  its  pillar  of  fire  went  not  before  him  to 
illumine  the  darkness  of  his  destiny.  And  very  dark  that 
destiny  now  looked  to  him.  He  was  so  young  and  inex- 
perienced— only  nineteen — what  could  he  do  ?  He  never 
once  thought  of  resorting  to  the  stage.  His  mind,  by  a 
powerful  reaction,  was  now  as  much  repelled  from  that  course 
of  life  as  it  had  once  been  attracted  to  it.  He  loathed  the 
very  thought  of  it.  Where  should  he  go  ?  Uncaring 
whither,  he  decided  to  direct  his  course  to  Virginia.  He  had 
a  college  friend,  who  lived  beyond  the  Alleghanies,  and  pos- 
sibly, through  him,  he  might  learn  of  some  employment — a  pri- 
vate tutorship  perhaps.  Poor  fellow  !  He  had  never  learned  to 
govern  himself — how  could  he  discipline  the  young  minds  of 
others  ?  But  Claude  resolved  to  earn  his  bread  by  honour- 
able industry,  or  perish.  He  looked  back  with  shame  upon 
his  life  of  self-indulgence  and  vanity.  He  felt  that  he  had 
lived  in  vain.  High  and  noble  thoughts,  born  of  adversity, 
began  to  spring  up  and  flourish  in  his  bosom.  He  felt  wiser, 
better,  stronger.  Great  trials  either  elevate  and  purify,  or 
crush  and  sink  the  character  of  man.  Happy  they,  who,  like 
Claude,  have  an  elastic  principle  within,  that  rebounds  from 
the  pressure  which  threatened  to  weigh  it  down  to  dust. 

We  will  not  follow  the  young  and  deeply  reflecting  wanderer 
through  all  the  windings  of  his  way ;  but  we  will  stop  with 
him,  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  heaven-ascending  Alleghanies, 
and  see  who  lies  by  that  broken,  over-turned  carriage.  Such 
a  rough,  precipitous,  dizzying  road — it  is  no  wonder  there 
should  be  runaway  horses,  broken  bones  and  bruised  limbs. 

Claude  had  jumped  from  the  stage,  as  he  often  did,  in- 
capable of  such  long  inaction  in  his  present  restless  and  strug- 
gling mood,  and  was  leaping  down  the  craggy  mountain  path. 
The  sight  of  the  shattered  vehicle,  the  groans  of  the  man, 
who  was  lying  partly  under  the  ruins,  arrested  his  step.  The 
sufferer  was  an  aged  man,  with  hair  of  snowy  whiteness,  and 
features  which,  in  repose,  must  have  expressed  benevolence 
and  benignity  ;  but  now  they  were  distorted  with  pain,  and, 
from  his  pallid  complexion  and  ashy  lips,  it  was  evident  he 
was  sinking  beneath  the  weight  of  his  sufferings.  Claude, 


THE   BANISHED   SON.  29 

seeing  a  silver  cup,  seized  it,  and  ran  to  a  clear  spring,  that 
gurgled  within  a  few  feet  of  the  travellers.  Beautiful  springs 
there  are  welling  at  the  foot  of  these  great  mountains  !  He 
bathed  the  forehead  and  lips  of  the  aged  sufferer,  raising  his 
head  gently  on  his  arm,  and  smoothing  back  the  white  locks, 
all  soiled  with  dust. 

The  stranger,  restored  to  consciousness,  opened  his  eyes, 
and  beholding  a  countenance  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  com- 
passionate, bending  over  him,  he  almost  imagined  an  angel 
had  been  sent  down  to  his  relief.  Leaning  on  his  elbow,  he 
endeavoured  to  rise,  but  fell  back  again  with  a  deep  groan. 
One  of  his  limbs  was  broken,  and  it  was  evident  he  had  re- 
ceived some  dreadful  internal  injury.  Claude  felt  that,  alone, 
he  could  not  assist  the  disabled  stranger.  A  house  stood  at 
a  little  distance,  a  log-cabin,  where  the  stage  was  accustomed 
to  stop.  His  first  thought  was  to  run  to  the  cabin,  and  pro- 
cure assistance — the  next  to  await  the  coming  of  the  stage, 
whose  course  he  had  anticipated,  and  which,  in  its  thunder- 
ing passage  down  the  hill,  might  overlook  the  poor,  helpless 
traveller,  unless  warned  of  his  situation.  He  acted  on  this 
last  thought,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  other  passengers, 
the  stranger  was  removed  to  the  cabin.  Pitiable  was  the 
situation  of  the  aged  sufferer.  He  was  unaccompanied  by 
friends ;  it  was  impossible  to  procure  a  surgeon,  without  send- 
ing a  great  distance,  in  those  lone  mountain  regions,  and  the 
house  to  which  he  was  carried  could  scarcely  furnish  him  the 
comforts  wanting  in  health.  How  much  more  must  he  feel 
the  destitution  in  his  present  helpless,  suffering,  almost  dying 
condition  ! 

Claude  sat  by  the  rude  couch,  on  which  he  was  placed,  hold- 
ing a  glass  of  wine,  which  ever  and  anon  he  applied  to  his 
lips,  trying  to  cheer  him  by  kind  and  encouraging  words.  He 
told  him  that  a  messenger  had  been  despatched  for  a  surgeon, 
and  that  he  would  remain  with  him  till  all  danger  was  past. 

"  But  the  stage  is  already  at  the  door,"  said  the  old  man, 
feebly,  "  and  you  must  depart.  I  cannot  take  advantage  of 
your  kindness  to  a  stranger." 

But  Claude  would  not  leave  him.  The  stage-horn  blew 
loud  and  musically,  the  passengers  hurried  to  their  seats,  the 
driver  vociferated  that  all  was  ready,  and  still  Claude  held 
the  old  man's  hand  and  refused  to  depart.  The  heart  of  the 
banished  son  yearned  towards  the  venerable  stranger.  New 
feelings  were  awakened  within  him.  It  was  the  first  time  he  , 


30  PERCY;  OR, 

had  witnessed  human  suffering,  and  he  knew  not,  till  this 
moment,  what  a  deep  fountain  of  pity  lay  in  the  unexplored 
regions  of  his  heart.  But  the  angel  had  stepped  into  the  pool, 
and  the  waters  were  troubled.  Mr.  Montague  (such  was  the 
stranger's  name)  resisted  no  longer  the  generous  sacrifice  of 
Claude. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  my  son  !"  was  all  he  could  utter. 

Claude  sighed.  How  sweet,  yet  mournful,  sounded  that 
name  to  his  ear !  He  thought  he  had  heard  it  for  the  last 
time,  and  it  awoke  ten  thousand  thrilling  remembrances. 

All  night  Claude  watched  by  his  bed-side,  endeavouring  to 
mitigate  the  excruciating  pain  that  racked  his  frame  almost  to 
dissolution.  The  inmates  of  the  house  were  kind  but  rough 
people,  and  Mr.  Montague  evidently  shrunk  from  their  minis- 
trations. The  bed  was  hard,  the  pillows  low,  and  the  sheets, 
though  of  snowy  whiteness,  of  exceedingly  coarse  linen.  The 
wintry  wind  whistled  through  the  log-built  walls,  and  no 
curtains  protected  the  invalid  from  the  blast.  The  windows, 
destitute  of  glass,  were  nothing  but  openings,  closed  by  wooden 
shutters,  which,  occasionally  loosening,  flapped  to  and  fro, 
with  a  mournful,  creaking  sound.  There  was  nothing  cheer- 
ful in  the  aspect  of  the  room,  but  the  bright,  all-illuminating 
pine  blaze,  that  rolled  up  the  immense  chimney,  reflecting  its 
glow  on  a  sable  figure  that  sat  nodding  on  the  hearth,  on  the 
pallid  face  and  snowy  locks  of  the  aged,  and  the  bright  -hair 
of  the  young  that  mingled  with  it  as  it  swept  against  the 
pillow.  Such  was  the  apartment  and  scene,  in  which  the 
luxuriantly-bred  and  self-indulging  Claude  served  his  first 
apprenticeship  at  the  couch  of  suffering.  Often,  during  the 
stillness  of  the  night,  he  would  start  and  tremble  with  awe, 
as  the  sufferer,  in  the  extremity  of  his  agony,  would  call  upon 
his  Saviour  and  his  God  to  help  him,  in  the  time  of  trouble. 

"  Forsake  me  not,  0  my  God  !  Be  not  far  from  me  !  Make 
haste  to  help  me,  O  Lord,  my  salvation !  In  the  day  of  my 
trouble  I  will  call  upon  thee — for  thou  wilt  answer  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Claude  had  heard  the  voice  of 
prayer,  save  from  the  sacred  desk.  But  then  he  listened  to 
it  as  a  formula  proper  for  the  Sabbath,  and  the  God  thus 
addressed  seemed  very  far  off.  There  was  something  awful 
in  being  thus  made  to  feel  His  presence  in  that  lonely  cham- 
ber— in  being  brought  so  very  near  Him  by  the  prayer  of  faith, 
mingling  with  the  groans  of  agony.  His  earthly  father  had 
cast  him  off.  Had  he  indeed  a  Father  in  Heaven,  who  would 
receive  the  returning  prodigal  ? 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  31 


CHAPTER  III. 

LATE  the  next  morning  the  surgeon  arrived.  The  inflam- 
mation, caused  by  such  protracted  suffering,  made  it  a  very 
dangerous  case,  and  for  many  days  Mr.  Montague  lingered  on 
the  borders  of  the  grave.  Claude  would  have  written  to  his 
friends,  but  the  speechless  lips  of  the  sufferer  could  give  no 
directions ;  and  all  that  the  young  man  could  do  was  to  watch 
by  his  couch,  and  await  the  issues  of  life  and  death.  At  length 
the  inflammation  subsided,  and  the  patient  was  pronounced 
out  of  immediate  danger.  Tnen  Claude,  at  his  request,  wrote 
to  Mr.  Vane,  his  son-in-law,  who  resided  with  him,  near  one 
of  the  large  towns  of  the  Old  Dominion,  several  days'  journey 
from  the  mountain-cabin.  A  week  must  elapse,  at  the  shortest 
possible  calculation,  before  any  of  his  family  could  arrive.  In 
the  mean  time,  though  helpless  and  suffering  from  his  broken 
limb,  he  gradually  revived,  and  seemed  to  derive  much  pleasure 
from  the  conversation  of  his  youthful  friend.  Claude,  with 
the  ingenuousness  of  youth,  told  him  all  his  history. 

"  Poor  boy  !  poor  boy  !"  cried  Mr.  Montague,  moved  even 
to  tears ;  "  so  young  and  inexperienced  !  I  will  be  a  father 
to  you ;  I  have  no  son  of  my  own ;  and  you  shall  be  the  son 
of  my  adoption.  I  owe  my  life  to  your  care,  and  am  selfish 
enough  to  rejoice  that  Providence  has  opened  a  way  in  which 
I  can  show  my  gratitude,  and  pay,  though  but  in  a  small 
degree,  a  debt  so  large.  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  I  will  carry  you 
to  a  happy  home,  where  all  is  love,  and  peace,  and  joy.  You 
shall  have  a  sister,  too,  in  my  granddaughter — my  sweet, 
sweet  Mary.  How  happy  she  will  be  to  have  a  companion 
whom  she  will  love  as  a  brother  I" 

Claude  bent  his  head  on  the  old  man's  hand,  and  a  tear 
moistened  the  dry  and  feverish  skin. 

"  Think  me  not  ungrateful,  sir — but  I  cannot  eat  the  bread 
of  dependence." 

"  Fear  not ;  I  will  only  put  you  in  the  way  of  earning  an 
independent  subsistence.  You  shall  study  law  with  Mr.  Vane, 
if  you  like  the  profession.  In  the  mean  time  you  can  give 
my  Mary  lessons  in  French  and  drawing,  and  thus  make  a 
compromise  with  pride.  Deny  me  not,  my  son,  for  my  heart 


32  PERCY  J   OR, 

clings  to  thee,  and  refuses  to  be  separated  from  thee.  I  see 
the  hand  of  Providence  in  this.  Disowned  by  him  who  gave 
you  birth,  God  has  sent  you  to  watch,  with  all  a  son's  devo- 
tion, by  my  lonely  pillow,  and  to  be  cherished  in  a  bosom  that 
feels  for  you  already  all  a  father's  tenderness  and  love." 

He  opened  his  arms  with  a  benign  smile,  and  Claude  felt  as 
if  he  were  indeed  clasped  to  the  bosom  of  a  father.  That 
night  he  wrote  to  Ella  that  he  had  found  a  home — a  father ; 
he  had  no  longer  a  dark  and  aimless  existence,  but  a  future 
illumined  by  hope  and  promise ;  she  must  no  longer  mourn 
for  the  banished  Romeo ;  bright  days  were  yet  in  store,  when 
love  and  faith  and  constancy  would  meet  their  reward. 

What  a  change  was  made  in  that  log-cabin  by  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Montague's  family  !  He  was  a  rich  Southern  planter, 
and  had  all  the  appliances  of  wealth  and  the  refinements  of 
luxury  to  grace  his  home.  Downy  beds,  soft  cushions,  and 
rich  curtains  were  all  brought  for  the  comfort  of  the  invalid, 
as  well  as  every  delicacy  that  could  please  the  taste  and  tempt 
the  appetite.  Mr.  Vane  was  a  noble  specimen  of  a  Virginia 
gentleman — his  wife  a  fair,  gentle,  interesting-looking  lady; 
but  Mary — sweet  Mary — how  lovely  she  looked,  clinging,  like 
a  fair  garland,  round  the  neck  of  her  aged  grandfather  !  How 
angelic  the  expression  of  her  soft,  dark  eyes  !  how  delicate  the 
lilies  of  her  cheek !  Not  even  the  faintest  tint  of  red  was 
visible  on  that  beauteous  cheek :  it  seemed  too  pure,  too  holy 
for  the  breath  of  human  passion  to  pass  over  it. 

"  Ah,  dear  grandfather  I"  she  cried,  smoothing  away  his 
long,  silky  hair,  and  kissing  his  pale  forehead,  "  you  should 
not  have  crossed  the  mountains  alone ;  you  know  how  hard  I 
pleaded  to  bear  you  company." 

"  These  young  arms  could  hardly  have  checked  the  fiery 
horses,"  cried  he,  fondly  returning  her  affectionate  caresses. 
11 1  believe  I  was  wrong;  but  when  we  are  very  young,  or  very 
old,  we  are  apt  to  be  too  self-relying  and  independent.  Had 
not  my  driver  fallen  sick,  so  that  I  had  to  leave  him  and  trust 
to  the  guidance  of  a  stranger,  this  accident  would  not  have 
overtaken  me.  But  it  is  all  right,  and  will  prove  a  blessing 
to  us  all.  It  has  given  a  dear  young  son  to  my  old  age,  and 
a  friend  and  brother  to  my  gentle  Mary." 

Mary's  dove-like  eyes  turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  unutter- 
able softness.  They  seemed  to  say,  "  My  heart  yearns  for  a 
brother ;  have  I  found  one  in  thee  ?" 

Claude  was  welcomed  into  this  interesting  family  with  ex- 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  33 

pressions  of  the  most  cordial  affection.  His  filial  cares  to  the 
beloved  father  of  the  household  were  repaid  with  unbounded 
gratitude.  Claude  thought  that  never  was  kindness  that  cost 
so  little,  so  richly  remunerated.  It  was  no  sacrifice  to  him  to 
linger  by  the  wayside,  and,  while  he  administered  comfort  and 
assistance,  drink  in  words  of  heavenly  wisdom  that  strength- 
ened and  renovated  his  soul.  This  he  repeated  again  and 
again  ;  but  Mr.  Vane  would  thank  him — his  gentle  wife  would 
bless  him — and  Mary's  melting  glance  would  express  a  thou- 
sand grateful  meanings.  The  sunny  spirit  of  Claude  began 
to  sparkle  once  more,  for  the  cloud  which  had  gathered  so 
darkly  over  him  had  "  turned  a  silver  lining  to  the  night." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vane  returned  home  in  a  few  days,  for  she 
had  young  children  that  required  her  care ;  but  Mary  remained 
with  her  grandfather,  and  shared  with  Claude  the  office  of 
nurse.  It  would  be  weeks  before  his  broken  limb  would  be 
healed  so  as  to  admit  of  travelling;  and,  during  that  time,  the 
mountain-cabin  seemed  changed  to  a  fairy  grotto,  and  Mary 
the  presiding  sylph,  who  breathed  a  spell  on  everything  around 
her.  Mr.  Montague  was  so  much  better  that  he  could  sit, 
propped  up  in  bed  for  hours,  reading ;  and  then  Claude  and 
Mary  would  ramble  about  the  woods  in  search  of  evergreens 
to  decorate  the  walls,  or  moss  from  the  gray  old  rocks.  It 
was  winter,  and  no  gay,  sweet  flower  peeped  forth  from  the 
green  underwood ;  but  Mary  was  such  a  lover  of  nature  that 
she  would  wander  abroad  if  there  was  nothing  to  look  upon 
but  the  clear  blue  heavens,  and  "  the  grand  old  woods."  She 
had  brought  her  guitar,  for  Mr.  Montague  loved  Mary's  singing 
better  than  any  music  in  the  world,  and  Mary  did  not  like  to 
sing  without  an  accompaniment.  But  she  had  an  accompani- 
ment now  sweeter  than  any  instrument,  and  that  was  the  voice 
of  Claude — the  clearest,  richest,  most  melodious  voice  that 
ever  warbled  from  human  lips.  It  was  astonishing  to  hear 
such  music  as  they  made,  gushing  through  the  chinks  of  that 
old  log-cabin. 

When  Mr.  Montague  was  tired  of  sitting  up  and  reading 
himself,  he  would  lean  back  on  his  couch,  and  Mary  and 
Claude  would  take  turns  in  reading  aloud.  Every  night  before 
he  fell  asleep,  they  would  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible ;  and 
Claude  thought  the  poetry  of  Shakspeare  less  beautiful  than 
the  minstrelsy  of  David,  breathed  from  the  sweet  lips  of  Mary 
Vane. 

What  would  poor  Ella  have  thought,  who  was  mourning  in 


34  PERCY;  OR, 

desolaLon  of  soul  for  her  banished  cousin,  and  whom  she  de- 
picted to  herself  as  a  forlorn  and  heart-broken  wanderer,  could 
she  have  seen  him  thus  closely  domesticated  with  this  angelic 
young  creature,  associated  in  such  an  endearing  task,  and 
bound  by  such  tender  and  near-drawing  ties  ?  And  was  he 
in  danger  of  forgetting  Ella — the  companion  of  his  childhood — 
the  generous,  devoted,  fond,  and  faithful  Ella  ?  No !  the 
presence  of  Mary  only  brought  her,  by  the  force  of  contrast, 
more  vividly  and  constantly  to  his  remembrance.  Hers  was 
the  changing  cheek  and  lightning  glance  that  spoke  of  the 
quick-flowing  blood  and  the  electric  spirit ;  Mary's,  the  pearl- 
white  skin,  and  the  soft,  heavenly,  prayerful  eye,  that  reminded 
one  of  a  beauty  not  of  this  world.  Ella  was  the  loveliest  of 
the  daughters  of  earth,  and  he  loved  her  with  youth's  first, 
warmest  passion;  Mary,  an  image  of  the  angels  of  Heaven, 
whom  he  could  worship  and  adore  as  a  guardian  saint.  No  ! 
in  Mary's  presence  he  loved  Ella  with  a  holier,  deeper  love, 
for  she  awoke  all  that  was  pure  and  holy  in  his  nature.  It 
was  only  the  poetry  of  nursing  that  devolved  on  Claude  and 
Mary.  All  the  drudgery,  if  such  it  could  be  called,  where  all 
seemed  a  labour  of  love,  was  performed  by  a  negro  servant — 
an  old  and  attached  slave — who  had  come  to  take  care  of  her 
old  master.  It  was  affecting  to  see  with  what  tenderness, 
reverence,  and  devotion,  she  watched  over  him ;  what  motherly 
kindness  and  love  she  manifested  for  her  sweet  young  mistress  ! 
Mrs.  Vane  would  hardly  have  been  willing  to  have  left  Mary 
with  her  helpless  grandfather,  and  this  fascinating  young 
stranger,  had  it  not  been  for  the  guardianship  of  this  faithful 
and  intelligent  creature. 

The  log-cabin  was  deserted,  and  the  evergreen  wreaths  hung 
withering  on  the  walls.  Mr.  Montague  returned  to  his  home, 
still  an  invalid,  but  able  to  walk,  supported  by  the  arm  of  a 
friend.  It  was  a  beautiful  scene  !  The  return  of  the  Christian 
master — the  affectionate  father — the  beloved  patriarch — to  his 
own  dwelling  !  To  see  the  rows  of  negroes,  with  smiling  ivory 
gleaming  white  through  their  sable  lips,  looking  so  happy,  so 
respectful,  standing  each  side  of  the  avenue  that  led  to  the 
noble  mansion,  ready  to  welcome  home  their  almost  worshipped 
master ;  to  see  him  bending  his  venerable  head,  with  such  a 
benign  smile,  and  taking  these  humble,  affectionate  creatures, 
so  kindly  by  the  hand,  asking  after  their  welfare,  and  blessing 
Grod  that  he  was  permitted  to  return  to  them  once  more  ! 
Whoever  had  witnessed  this  scene  would  have  been  convinced 


THE   BANISHED   SON.  35 

that  the  bond  that  binds  the  master  and  the  slave,  is  not 
always  an  iron  bond,  and  that  beautiful  flowers  of  gratitude 
and  affection  may  be  made  to  flourish  in  the  dark  bosom  of 
the  negro.  Warm  was  the  welcome  they  gave  the  "  young 
master,"  who  was  established  at  once  as  an  adopted  son  in  this 
abode  of  princely  hospitality.  He  immediately  commenced 
his  studies  with  Mr.  Vane,  and  his  instructions  to  Mary.  By 
day,  an  indefatigable  student;  at  night,  the  teacher  of  his 
lovely  adopted  sister. 

Days,  weeks,  and  months,  glided  away.  Mr.  Montague 
noticed,  with  anxiety,  that  Claude's  brow  wore  a  saddened 
expression,  and  his  cheek  a  paler  hue.  Alas !  he  began  to 
feel  the  withering  fear  that  he  was  forgotten  by  Ella,  as  well 
as  disowned  by  his  father.  He  had  written  again  and  again 
to  the  first,  telling  her  where  to  direct  her  replies ;  and  once 
he  had  written  to  his  father — not  to  ask  for  restoration  to 
favour — not  to  supplicate  for  his  forfeited  place  in  his  heart 
and  home — but  to  tell  him  of  the  friends  he  had  found,  the 
profession  he  had  chosen,  and  the  solemn  resolution  he  had 
formed  to  .make  himself  worthy  of  the  name  of  Percy — so 
that,  in  future  years,  when  his  "reformation,  glittering  o'er 
his  fault,"  should  efface  its  shadow  from  remembrance,  he 
would  dare  to  claim  his  esteem  as  a  man,  though  he  had 
alienated  his  affection  as  a  son.  In  this  high-toned,  manly 
spirit,  wrote  the  banished  youth ;  and  yet  no  reply  was  vouch- 
safed by  the  inflexible  father — no  answer  came  from  the  once 
loving  and  devoted  cousin.  Had  not  the  heart  of  Claude  been 
shielded  by  a  prior  attachment,  that  was  entwined  with  every 
fibre  of  his  being,  he  could  not  have  been  insensible  to  the 
almost  celestial  loveliness  of  Mary.  Nor  was  he  insensible. 
She  was  to  him  the  incarnation  of  all  that  was  pure  and  holy 
— the  sister  of  his  soul — the  star  of  his  spiritual  heaven.  But 
Ella  was 

"A  creature  not  too  bright  nor  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food — 
For  transient  sorrow,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles." 

But  Mary,  though  she  had  the  face  of  an  angel,  had  the 
heart  of  a  woman — which,  though  it  sent  no  blushing  heralds 
to  the  cheek,  throbbed  wildly  and  warmly  with  newly  awakened 
emotions.  In  the  solitude  of  that  mountain  cabin,  the  light 
of  a  new  existence  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  her;  and  that  light 


36  PERCY;  OR, 

had  grown  brighter  and  brighter,  till  it  enveloped  her  spirit, 
as  with  a  glory. 

Thus  two  years  had  passed  away.  The  letters  of  Claude 
still  remained  unanswered,  and,  with  a  freezing  sense  of  her 
heartlessness  and  inconstancy,  he  tried  to  forget  the  Juliet  of 
his  boyish  imagination.  He  was  assisted  in  this  by  a  solemn 
scene,  in  which  he  was  made  an  actor. 

The  aged  grandfather  lay  upon  his  death-bed.  He  had 
never  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  accident,  which  led  to 
the  adoption  of  the  banished  Claude.  Threescore-years-and- 
ten  had  left  their  snows  upon  his  head,  without  withering  the 
blood  of  his  heart.  But  death  was  now  near,  and  the  warmest 
heart  grows  cold  at  his  touch.  Once — when  it  was  believed 
he  slept,  and  Mary  and  Claude  sat  by  his  bed-side,  as  they 
had  often  done  in  the  mountain  cabin — he  opened  his  eyes 
and  gazed  upon  them  both  so  earnestly  and  wistfully,  that 
they  involuntarily  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  asked  him  what 
he  desired. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  in  feeble  accents,  taking  a  hand  of 
each  and  clasping  them  in  his  own,  "  I  am  going  home.  The 
aged  pilgrim  is  about  to  return  to  his  God.  But  you  young 
travellers,  your  journey  is  but  just  begun.  It  is  a  weary 
journey;  but,  if  we  go  hand  in  hand  with  one  that  loves  us, 
the  way  seems  smooth  and  pleasant  to  the  feet.  Mary,  my 
darling,  you  have  been  the  child  of  my  old  age — the  object 
of  many  prayers.  I  die  happy;  for  I  know  there's  one — one, 
whose  hand  is  even  now  clasped  in  mine — who  will  make  life 
a  sweet  pilgrimage  to  you.  Claude,  my  dear  Claude,  I  know 
you  and  my  sweet  Mary  love  each  other  !  Both  so  good — so 
beautiful !  Heaven  has  made  you  for  each  other  !  I  give 
her  to  you,  Claude,  as  my  dying  legacy ;  and  may  the  Lord 
be  gracious  to  you,  as  you  are  faithful  to  this  holy  trust." 

Claude,  incapable  of  utterance,  knelt  by  the  side  of  the 
kneeling  Mary.  Her  hand  trembled  in  his — her  eyes,  swim- 
ming in  tears,  for  one  moment  turned  towards  him,  then  lifted 
to  Heaven,  were  filled  with  a  love  so  deep,  so  pure,  yet  so  im- 
passioned— a  love  which,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  suffered 
to  rise  from  the  depth  of  her  heart  free  and  unchecked — 
sanctioned  and  hallowed,  as  it  now  was,  by  the  blessing  of  a 
dying  saint !  Claude  would  as  soon  have  disputed  the  decree 
of  Heaven,  as  the  wish  of  his  benefactor. 

The  patriarch  was  gathered  to  his  fathers.     The  leaves  of 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  37 

autumn  fell  upon  his  grave.  With  the  flowers  of  May,  Mary's 
bridal  garlands  were  to  be  woven. 

Thus  solemnly  betrothed,  without  any  volition  of  his  own, 
Claude  was  at  first  oppressed  by  the  most  strange  and  bewilder- 
ing sensations ;  but  honour,  gratitude,  and  delicacy,  all  urged 
him  to  endeavour  to  transfer  to  Mary  the  love  he  had  so  long 
cherished  for  the  faithless  Ella.  He  would  think  of  her  no 
more.  She  belonged  to  the  life  that  was  passed — the  life  of 
vanity,  self-indulgence,  and  pride;  Mary,  to  that  new  and 
spiritual  life,  born  of  suffering  and  self-humiliation. 

Mary's  cheek  had  always  been  as  colourless  as  Parian  mar- 
ble. Now  a  soft,  bright  rose-tint  began  to  tinge  its  snow,  and 
a  lustrous  beam  was  seen  playing  in  the  iris  of  her  soft  dark 
eye.  Claude  watched,  with  deepening  tenderness,  those  bright 
and  shifting  hues.  They  humanized,  as  it  were,  her  too 
spiritual  loveliness,  and  gave  her  a  resemblance  to  one,  whose 
image  could  never  be  destroyed.  Claude  grew  happier  in  the 
consciousness  of  his  increasing  love  for  Mary,  but  an  unac- 
countable sadness  seemed  to  oppress  her.  Often,  when  he 
attempted  to  lead  her  mind  to  sweet  thoughts  of  the  future, 
she  would  lean  her  head  in  silence  on  his  bosom  and  weep ; 
and  all  the  time  her  cheek  wore  a  deeper  rose,  and  her  eye  a 
more  intense  lustre. 

One  evening — it  was  a  warm,  dewy,  moonlighted  April  eve- 
ning— Mary  sat  with  Claude  in  the  long,  pillared  piazza.  The 
vine-leaves,  already  in  full  luxuriance,  clustered  round  the 
pillars,  and  cast  their  shadows  on  Mary's  alabaster  brow.  He 
held  one  of  her  bands  in  his,  and  "they  both  sat  in  silence 
looking  out  into  the  pale,  silvery  night.  A  slight  shiver  ran 
through  Mary's  frame. 

"  The  night  air  is  too  damp,"  said  Claude;  for,  though  she 
shuddered,  her  hand  glowed  with  feverish  heat.  "  Let  us 
go  in,  Mary,  lest  a  mildew  fall  to  wither  the  blossoms  of  my 
May." 

"  It  is  so  lovely,  sitting  here  in  the  moonlight !"  cried 
Mary,  looking  upward  with  a  melancholy  smile ;  "  and  when 
this  moon  has  waxed  and  waned,  and  another  comes  with 
softer,  mellower  light,  who  knows  if  my  eyes  will  be  permitted 
to  gaze  upon  its  beuuty  t" 

"  Why  speak  in  so  sad  a  strain,  my  Mary,  when  everything 
around  us  breathes  of  hope,  and  love,  and  joy  ?  Ah  !  you 
know  not  the  fear  your  deepening  melancholy  awakens,  as  the 


38  PERCY;  OR, 

hour  approaches  that  will  make  you  mine  forever — the  fear 
that  you  love  me  no  more." 

"  Not  love  you  !  not  love  you,  Claude  !"  repeated  she  with 
impassioned  emphasis.  Then  suddenly  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  suffering  her  head  to  droop  upon  his 
shoulder  :  "  0,  it  is  this  love — too  strong — too  deep — binding 
me  too  closely  to  life — that  makes  my  misery  and  despair  ! 
Oh  !  Claude — Claude — I  can  not,  can  not  give  thee  up  !" 

"  Mary,  talk  not  so  wildly.  You  alarm — you  terrify  me — 
you  know  not  what  you  utter." 

"  Yes,  Claude,"  raising  her  head,  and  fixing  on  him  a  dark, 
thrilling  glance.  "  I  know  too  well  what  I  am  uttering ;  I 
have  wanted  strength  to  say  it ;  hut  I  could  not  bear ;  you 
have  made  life  so  dear  to  me.  Put  your  hand  on  my  heart, 
Claude,  and  feel  it  nutter  like  the  wings  of  a  dying  bird. 
Thus  it  flatters  day  and  night  j  I  hear  it ;  I  feel  it ;  I  know 
that  I  am  dying.  It  was  thus  she  died — my  own  sweet 
sister  !  Oh,  Claude,  I  love  you  too  well ;  there  is  not  room 
in  this  poor,  weak  heart,  for  such  boundless  love.  It  is 
breaking — dying !" 

Her  arms  relaxed ;  her  head  fell  heavily  on  his  breast ;  she 
had  fainted.  The  almost  frantic  Claude  bore  her  into  the 
house.  The  father  and  mother  hung  over  her  with  an  anguish 
which  only  those  parents  know,  who  have  seen  sweet  house- 
hold blossoms  wither  thus  instantaneously  in  their  arms. 
Another  lovely  daughter  of  the  family,  an  elder  sister,  had 
been  smitten  in  a  similar  manner.  Thus  insidious  had  been 
the  approaches  of  disease — thus  sudden  had  been  the  pros- 
tration. It  was  strange  they  had  not  perceived,  and  been 
alarmed  by  the  symptoms — the  hectic  flush,  the  lustrous  eye, 
the  quick  and  panting  breath.  But  they  thought  the  purple 
bloom  of  love  was  in  her  cheek,  and  its  agitation  in  her  heart. 
They  dreamed  not  the  destroyer  was  near. 

The  anguish  of  Claude  baffled  description.  Mary,  with  the 
doom  of  death  hanging  over  her  young  life,  was  loved  as  she 
never  had  been  in  the  hour  of  health  and  joy.  He  would 
willingly  have  purchased  her  life  with  the  sacrifice  of  his  own. 
Her  loveliness,  purity,  and  truth,  and  above  all,  the  intensity 
of  her  love,  were  worthy  of  such  a  price.  That  one  so  young, 
so  fair,  so  angel-like  and  loving,  should  die  in  the  brilliancy 
of  ner  bloom,  and  lie  down  beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley — 
it  could  not  be.  God,  the  Almighty,  would  stretch  out  His 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  89 

omnipotent  arm,  and  save  her :  God,  the  All-merciful,  would 
not  inflict  so  fearful  a  chastisement. 

It  was  not  till  near  the  dawn  of  morning,  that  Claude  sunk 
into  a  feverish  slumber.  Then  the  shrouded  form  of  his 
adopted  father  seemed  to  stand  by  his  bed-side,  and  in  a  voice 
deep  and  solemn  as  the  distant  murmurs  of  the  ocean,  ex- 
claimed, "  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God  ;  thus  saith  the 
Lord."  Claude  trembled  in  every  limb.  Again  the  voice 
from  the  grave  spoke  :  "  Return,  my  son — return  to  the  home 
of  thy  fathers.  We,  that  love  you  here,  are  leaving  you,  one 
by  one.  You  have  a  mission  yet  to  fulfil,  before  we  meet 
again."  The  vision  faded,  but  it  left  a  deep  and  solemn  im- 
pression on  the  mind  of  Claude. 

When  he  stood  by  the  couch  of  Mary,  hope  rekindled  in 
his  heart.  Surely,  death  never  came  in  a  guise  like  that. 
The  rose  is  glowing  in  her  cheek  with  even  brighter  radiance. 
Alas  !  the  blood  that  dyes  that  glowing  rose  is  taken,  drop  by 
drop,  from  the  fountain  of  life.  Mary  had  been  struggling  with 
her  destiny,  silently,  darkly — struggling  in  the  strength  of 
her  love — that  human  love  which  had  interposed  a  shadow 
between  her  and  her  Heavenly  Father's  face.  But  now  the  strife 
was  over.  She  met  him  with  a  smile  of  heavenly  serenity. 

"  I  am  calm,  now,  my  beloved,"  she  cried.  "  God  has 
given  me  strength  to  resign  thee.  Oh,  Claude,  I  have  been 
an  idolater,  and  my  soul  must  be  torn  from  the  idol  I  adored. 
I  have  sinned,  and  deserve  the  chastisement.  Had  I  been 
permitted  to  live  for  thee,  the  world  would  haye  been  too  dear 
to  me.  I  would  have  asked  no  other  heaven." 

Thus  she  continued  to  speak  to  him,  who  knelt  in  speech- 
less agony  at  her  side,  till  her  fluttering  breath  could  no 
longer  utter  any  but  broken  sentences — and  then  her  eyes,  bent 
upon  his  face,  beamed  with  unutterable  love. 

Mary  died — the  sweet,  holy-minded  creature,  who  seemed 
lent  to  earth  a  little  while,  to  show  what  angels  are — and  the 
flowers  of  May,  that  were  to  have  decorated  her  bridal  hours, 
were  strewed  upon  her  shroud.  Never  had  she  looked  so 
transcendently  lovely,  as  when  folded  in  her  winding  sheet, 
with  white  roses,  less  white  than  her  "  fair  and  unpolluted 
flesh,"  scattered  over  her  motionless  breast,  her  long,  soft 
lashes,  resting  on  her  cheek  of  snow,  and  her  exquisite  features 
breathing  the  stillness  of  everlasting  repose.  A  smile  of  more 
than  mortal  sweetness  rested  on  her  pallid  lips,  and  seemed  to 
mock  their  icy  coldness.  But  beautiful  as  she  was,  she  was 


40  PERCY;  OR, 

but  dust,  and  she  had  returned  to  dust  again.  They  buried 
her  by  the  side  of  her  aged  grandfather,  and  scattered  the 
earth  "  over  the  face  of  eighteen  summers." 

Let  us  leave  Claude  awhile  to  the  memory  of  the  dead. 
Let  us  return  to  that  cold,  stern,  and  proud  man,  whom  we 
left  upon  his  bed  of  down. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MR.  PERCY,  after  having  banished  his  offending  son,  re- 
mained, to  outward  appearance,  unchanged — but  a  worm  was 
eating  into  his  heart ;  outraged  nature  would  make  its  accusing 
accents  heard.  Pride,  to  whose  stern  dictates  he  had  sacrificed 
his  affections,  gave  him  no  consolation.  Even  Ella,  who  had 
loved  him  so  tenderly  that  her  love  cast  out  fear,  turned  coldly 
away  from  him  the  pale  roses  of  her  cheeks,  and  shrunk  from 
the  caresses  she  once  sought  and  returned.  A  restless,  insa- 
tiable desire  for  change  took  possession  of  him.  He  could  not 
live  surrounded  by  mute  remembrances  of  his  son.  A  picture, 
representing  Claude  in  the  brilliant  beauty  of  boyhood,  was 
taken  down  from  the  wall. 

"Oh!  cruel  and  hard-hearted,"  thought  Ella,  "thus  to 
vent  his  anger  on  the  unconscious  semblance  of  his  son  !" 

She  knew  not  the  silent  workings  of  his  soul. 

The  portrait  of  his  departed  wife,  the  beautiful  image  of 
the  loved  and  lost,  on  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  gaze 
for  years,  and  thus  keep  alive  the  remembrance  of  her  youthful 
beauty — he  turned  its  face  to  the  wall.  The  eyes,  following 
him  wherever  he  moved,  seemed  to  ask,  reproachfully,  for  her 
lost  son. 

Why  did  he  not  seek  to  recall  the  young  wanderer  ?  In- 
domitable pride  still  forbade.  To  recall  an  act  would  be  an 
acknowledgment  of  error,  and  a  stain  on  the  infallibility  of  his 
character.  As  week  after  week  passed  by,  without  bringing 
tidings  of  the  exile,  vague  fears  and  dark  misgivings  haunted 
and  oppressed  him.  Perhaps,  driven  to  despair  by  a  father's 
cruelty,  and  unable  to  contend  with  the  ills  that  youth  and 
inexperience  ever  exaggerate,  he  had  lifted  a  suiqidal  hand,  or 
given  his  body  to  the  secrecy  and  silence  of  th^  dark  rolling 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  41 

stream.  He  would  have  given  his  pride,  his  name,  yea,  life 
itself,  for  one  line,  assuring  him  of  the  safety  of  his  discarded 
boy.  It  was  when  his  mind  was  wrought  up  almost  to  mad- 
ness by  this  suggestion,  he  saw  in  the  public  print  an  account 
of  a  young  man  whose  body  was  washed  on  the  shores  of  one 
of  the  rivers  of  the  West.  The  stranger  was  young  and  hand- 
some, but  there  was  nothing  about  his  person  by  which  his 
name  could  be  identified,  and  "  unknown"  was  written  over 
his  grave.  Mr.  Percy  crushed  the  paper  in  his  bosom,  so  that 
no  eye  but  his  own  could  see  the  startling  paragraph;  but  the 
image  of  that  wave-washed  body  never  forsook  him.  Floating 
on  the  current  of  memory,  it  was  for  ever  drifting  to  the  deso- 
late strand  of  his  thoughts,  where  sorrow  and  remorse  hung 
weeping  over  it. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  Paris  ?"  said  he,  one  morning, 
to  the  sad  and  drooping  Ella. 

"Oh!  yes,  uncle!"  she  cried,  and,  in  her  rapture  at  tlio 
idea  of  flying  away  from  herself,  she  threw  her  arms  arouri'l 
his  neck  and  kissed  his  cheek.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
voluntarily  caressed  him  since  Claude's  banishment,  and  lie 
was  strangely  moved.  He  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  she 
felt  it  throbbing  as  she  never  thought  that  hard  heart  could 
throb.  As  he  bent  his  head  to  conceal  the  agitation  of  his 
features,  she  noticed  that  silvery  shadows  were  fast  spreading 
over  his  jetty  locks.  Absorbed  in  her  own  grief,  a  grief  not 
unmixed  with  indignation  against  its  author,  she  had  not  ob- 
served the  marks  of  suffering,  more  bitter  and  wearing  because 
concealed  on  the  lofty  lineaments  of  Mr.  Percy.  But  that 
palpitating  heart,  those  whitening  locks,  and  could  it  be  ! 
yes — that  tear  falling  on  the  cheek  that  rested  on  his  bosom — 
all  spoke  of  the  chastisement  avenging  nature  had  inflicted. 
The  sealed  fountain  of  Ella's  sorrows  gushed  forth  at  this 
expression  of  human  sympathy,  this  drop  of  moisture,  in  the 
arid  desert  of  his  heart. 

"  Oh,  uncle  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  burst  of  passionate  emo- 
tion, "  you  have  not  forgotten  Claude ;  you  love  him  still ;  I 
knew  you  must  relent.  Let  me  speak  of  him,  uncle — I  cannot 
bear  this  silence — it  seems  so  like  the  silence  of  death." 

"  Ella,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  raising  his  head  with  a  darkening 
countenance,  "forbear!  have  I  not  commanded  you  never  to 
breathe  his  name  ?"  * 

"  But  you  love  him,"  repeated  Ella,  excited  beyond  tho 
power  of  sell-control ;  "  you  weep  for  him.  Oh  !  my  uncle, 


42  PERCY;  OR, 

talk  not  of  Paris  Let  us  travel  over  our  own  country  in 
search  of  him  for  whom  we  both  are  mourning.  I  cannot  live 
in  this  uncertainty.  I  sometimes  think  I  would  be  less  miser- 
able if  I  knew  he  were  dead  than  to  live  in  this  state  of  agoni- 
zing suspense.  And  yet,"  continued  she,  wringing  her  hands, 
"  whither  should  we  go  ?  He  said  he  would  write  as  soon  as 
,  he  had  found  a  home.  Perhaps  he  has  found  a  home  in  the 
grave  I" 

She  paused  in  her  wild  utterance,  terrified  at  the  effect  of 
her  words.  Twice  her  uncle  attempted  to  rise — then,  sinking 
back  with  a  heavy  groan,  a  dark  shade  spread  beneath  his 
eyes,  giving  them  such  a  sunken,  hollow  look,  the  whole 
contour  of  his  face  seemed  altered*. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  she  cried,  again  throwing  her  arms 
around  him.  "  Forgive  me,  speak  to  me,  look  at  me,  uncle  !" 

Mr.  Percy  made  a  powerful  effort,  and  raised  his  tall  form 
to  its  usual  commanding  height.  Ashamed  of  the  weakness 
he  had  exhibited,  the  stern  disciple  of  the  stoic  school  mastered 
his  emotion,  and  even  assumed  a  colder,  severer  aspect : 

"  Retire,  Ella,  and  learn  to  respect  the  feelings  you  cannot 
understand.  I  am  sent  on  a  foreign  mission.  It  depends 
upon  yourself  whether  I  make  you  my  companion.  1  have 
pledged  my  services  to  my  country,  and  require  all  my  energies 
for  the  lofty  duties  of  my  station.  Never  again  hazard  a  scene 
like  this." 

They  went  to  Paris,  and,  amidst  new  and  exciting  scenes, 
Ella  recovered  something  of  the  brightness  of  her  youth.  The 
beautiful  young  American  was  flattered  and  caressed  in  the 
brilliant  circles  to  which  her  uncle's  rank  and  talents  admitted 
him  an  honoured  member.  Unmoved  by  the  adulation  of  the 
gay  Parisians,  she  remained  faithful  to  Claude  in  the  widow- 
hood of  her  young  heart  j  and,  though  his  name  passed  not 
her  lips,  it  was  only  the  more  tenderly  and  devotedly  cherished. 
This  secret,  fervent  attachment,  spiritualized  by  absence,  and 
sanctified  by  sorrow,  gave  a  depth  and  elevation  to  her  cha- 
racter which  softened,  while  it  exalted,  the  girlish  beauty  of 
her  countenance. 

The  time  of  Mr.  Percy's  public  services  expired,  and  he 
prepared  for  his  departure.  He  never  complained  of  ill-health ; 
he  was  firm  and  energetic  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties ;  but 
his  cheek  grew  more  hollow,  and  his  tall,  majestic  figure, 
began  to  lose  its  upright  position.  The  miners,  that  had  so 


THE  BANISHED   SON.  43 

long  been  working  in  secret,  had  at  length  shaken  the  pillars 
of  the  temple,  and  the  stately  fabric  was  giving  way. 

"  I  will  go  to  Italy,"  said  the  weary  statesman,  "  and,  breath- 
ing awhile  its  balmy  atmosphere,  rest  from  the  turmoil  of  life." 

The  saddened  mind  of  Ella  kindled  at  the  thought  of  visiting 
that  classic  land — the  land  of  genius  and  song — of  Romeo  anil 
Juliet's  tragic  loves.  But  where  was  the  Romeo  of  her  con- 
stant heart?  Cold,  dreary  silence,  was  the  only  answer  to  this 
oft-repeated  interrogation,  and  it  fell  with  leaden  weight  on 
her  sinking  hopes.  It  must  be  the  silence  of  death  or  oblivion. 

But  Mr.  Percy  found  not  the  rest  he  sought.  The  bland, 
delicious  gales,  the  soft,  golden  sunsets,  the  grand  and  solemn 
ruins,  the  magnificent  monuments  of  departed  genius,  instilled 
no  balm  into  his  tortured  and  remorseful  spirit.  Where  pride 
once  reigned  in  regal  majesty,  the  tottering  feeling  of  in- 
security which  haunts  the  soul,  unsupported  by  Christian 
faith,  when  one  by  one  the  frail  reeds  of  earthly  hope  are 
breaking  from  beneath  it,  alone  remained.  He  languished  to 
return  once  more  to  the  home  he  had  deserted,  and  to  feel 
himself  surrounded  once  more  by  the  mementoes  of  life's 
happier  hours. — If  he  must  die,  let  him  be  in  the  midst  of 
those  mute  remembrancers,  from  which  he  had  once  im- 
patiently fled.  * 

Returned  once  more  to  his  native  country  and  home,  he  wag 
roused  awhile  from  his  languid  and  hopeless  condition,  by  the 
distracted,  state  of  his  affairs.  His  young  secretary, /.who  had 
anticipated  his  return  from  Paris,  that  all  things  might  be  in 
readiness  for  the  invalid  statesman,  had  absconded,  bearing 
with  him  a  large  portion  of  the  property  intrusted  to  his  care. 
After  having  taken  the  usual  measures  for  the  apprehension  of 
the  traitor,  in  whom  he  had  implicitly  trusted,  Mr.  Percy  sunk 
again  into  his  state  of  restless  gloom.  At  length,  after  years 
of  wavering  conflicts  with  his  own  passions — conflicts  strong 
and  terrible  as  they  were  dark  and  silent — he  prostrated  him- 
self where  the  stricken  soul  alone  can  find  rest,  in  penitence 
and  humility  and  faith,  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross.  * 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  September,  one  of  those  mild 
autumnal  days  of  the  more  northern  latitudes,  when  the  sun 
seems  to  shine  through  golden  gauze,  and  shed  a  rich,  yellow 
radiance,  in  harmony  with  the  mellowing  dyes  of  the  year. 

Reclining  on  a  sofa,  partially  raised  by  pillows  from  a  recum- 
bent attitude,  lay  the  emaciated  form  of  Mr.  Percy.  His  onco 
sable  hair  was  now  turned  to  snowy  whiteness,  and  lines, 


44  PERCY;  OR, 

deeper  than  those  made  by  the  engraving  hand  of  Time,  were 
traced  upon  his  lofty  brow. 

Ella  sat  on  a  low  seat  at  his  side — the  book  in  which  she 
had  been  reading,  hanging  listlessly  in  her  hand.  Far  dif- 
ferent was  she  from  the  sunny-tressed,  flower-crowned,  bloom- 
ing being,  introduced  years  before,  in  her  birth-day  gala  robes. 
Those  sunny  tresses  no  longer  hung  in  shming  ringlets^  free 
as  the  rippling  wave,  but  were  confined  in  classic  bands 
behind.  The  brilliant  beauty  of  girlhood  was  softened  into  the 
paler  loveliness,  the  intellectual  grace  and  subdued  expression 
of  womanhood.  The  brightness,  the  eagerness,  the  animation 
of  hope,  were  exchanged  for  the  shadow,  the  repose,  the 
pensiveness  of  memory. 

"  The  dark  of  her  eye 
Had  taken  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye." 

She  was  no  longer  the  impassioned  Juliet ;  she  was  the  gentle, 
self-sacrificing  Cordelia,  watching  with  filial  tenderness  over 
him,  on  whom  the  warring  winds  of  passion  had  but  too 
fiercely  blown.  But  the  voice,  that  was  not  in  the  tempest, 
the  earthquake,  or  the  fire,  had  breathed  upon  his  spirit,  and 
peace,  if  not  joy,  was  there.  Ella  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
uncle's  care-worn  and  pallid  forehead.  He  was  inexpressibly 
.dear  to  her  in  his  weakness,  humiliation,  and  dependence. 
There  seemed  a  balm  in  the  soft  touch  of  those  caressing  lips, 
for  he  closed  his  eyes  in  a  gentle  slumber,  and  Ella  sat  and 
watched  him  till  the  twilight  shadows  began  to  steal  in,  and 
mingle  with  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun.  The  sound 
of  entering  footsteps  roused  her  from  the  deep  revery  into 
which  she  had  fallen,  and  looking  up,  she  beheld  a  stranger 
standing  within  a  few  paces  of  the  threshold.  She  rose  and 
gazed  upou  him  with  a  troubled  glance.  A  wild  impulse  led 
her  to  compare  the  lineaments  of  the  stranger  with  those  of 
the  banished  Claude.  Of  superior  height  and  more  manly 
proportions,  there  was  nothing  in  his  figure  that  could  remind 
one  of  the  boyish  grace  of  her  cousin.  His  hair  was  of  a 
darker  brown,  and  the  pale  oval  of  his  cheek  was  of  a  very 
different  contour  from  the  glowing  cheek  of  Claude.  His  eyes, 
too — they  had  the  depth  and  saddened  splendour  of  night ; 
Claude's,  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the  meridian  beam. 

But  those  eyes  rested  not  on  her  face.  They  were  fixed,  as 
by  a  fascination,  on  the  recumbent  form  which  had  met  his 
glauce  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  Ella  trembled.  An  icy 


THE   BANISHED    SON.  45 

cliill  ran  through  her  veins,  and  curdled  her  blood:  The  re- 
membered image  of  the  bright  and  blooming  Claude  seemed 
to  stand  side  by  side  with  that  pale,  sad,  and  lofty-looking 
stranger,  and  mock  her  with  the  contrast. 

Mr.  Percy,  awakened  from  his  light  slumbers,  opened  his 
eyes,  and  met  those  of  the  young  man,  fixed  so  mournfully, 
steadfastly,  and  thrillingly  upon  him.  Trembling,  he  leaned 
forward,  and  shading  his  brow  with  his  hand,  gazed  upon  his 
face.  "  My  father !"  burst  from  the  quivering  lips  of  the 
stranger.  With  a  wild,  unearthly  cry,  Mr.  Percy  sprang  from 
the  sofa,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  his  banished  son. 

"  Let  me  die,  let  me  die,"  he  murmured,  in  broken  accents. 
"  Oh,  my  God  !  thou  art  great  and  good.  Thou  hast  heard 
the  prayers  of  a  broken  heart.  Let  me  die !"  he  continued, 
lifting  his  sunken  eyes  to  Heaven,  with  a  look  of  ecstatic  de- 
votion. 

Claude  bowed  his  face  on  his  father's  bosom,  and  wept 
aloud.  That  sad,  sad  wreck  !  was  that  indeed  his  father  ? 
And  Ella — was  that  pale,  trembling,  lovely  being,  now  kneel- 
ing by  them,  with  clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes — was 
that  the  radiant  Juliet  he  had  left  behind  ?  and  was  she 
faithful  and  unwedded  still  ?  Supporting  his  father's  feeble 
frame  to  the  sofa,  and  gently  withdrawing  from  his  clinging 
arms,  he  turned  to  Ella,  and  the  tide  of  boyish  passion  rushed 
in  torrents  through  his  heart.  But  such  scenes  cannot  be 
described.  They  are  foretastes  of  reunion  in  that  world, 
where,  the  dark  glass  of  time  being  broken,  spirits  meet  each 
other,  face  to  face,  in  the  cloudless  light  of  eternity. 

There  are  but  few  explanations  to  make.  Claude  had  felt 
it  a  holy  duty  to  remain  with  the  mourning  parents  of  his  buried 
Mary,  till  time  had  softened  the  bitterness  of  their  grief. 
Then,  faithful  to  a  vow  he  had  made,  the  night,  when  in 
dreams  he  had  beheld  his  adopted  father,  and  heard  from  his 
lips  the  solemn  words,  "  Return  :  you  have  a  mission  to 
fulfil,"  he  resolved  to  seek  in  person  the  forgiveness  of  his 
oifended  parent,  and  devote  his  future  life  to  his  service. 
Believing,  from  the  silence  and  apparent  alienation  of  Ella, 
that  she  was  by  this  time  the  bride  of  another,  he  had  come, 
a  filial  pilgrim,  to  the  domestic  altar,  to  offer  there  the  incense 
of  chastened  and  purified  affections. 

The  young  secretary,  who  had  absconded,  was  overtaken  on 
the  confines  of  Mexico,  and  among  the  papers  found  in  his 
possession,  were  the  letters  of  Claude,  which  he  had  withheld 


46  PERCY;  OR,  THE  BANISHED  SON. 

and  secreted,  probably  from  the  hope  of  one  day  filling  the 
place  of  the  banished  heir. 

Joy  is  a  great  physician.  Leaning  on  the  arm  and  heart 
of  his  son,  Mr.  Percy  slowly  measured  buck  his  steps  to 
that  world,  from  which  he  believed  himself  divorced  for  ever. 
His  voice  was  once  more  heard  in  the  councils  of  the  nation, 
and  it  was  listened  to  with  deeper  reverence — for  it  uttered 
lessons  of  wisdom  beyond  the  learning  of  this  world — a  wisdom 
born  of  suffering,  baptized  by  tears,  and  sanctified  by  the  Spirit 
of  God. 

Claude,  once  more  a  Percy,  resumed  his  place  in  the  halls 
of  his  ancestors.  He  had  told  Ella  all  his  story,  and  the  name 
of  Mary  became  sacred  to  her,  as  a  holy,  household  divinity. 

"  Mary,"  said  Claude  to  his  now  betrothed  Ella,  "  Mary 
was  the  bride  of  my  soul :  but  you,  Ella — the  object  of  my 
youth's  first  passion — you  only  are  the  wife  of  my  heart." 


WILD  JACK; 

OK, 

THE  STOLEN  CHILD. 

A   SKETCH   FROM   LIFE. 


PART  I. 

"  Think  not  the  heart  in  ebon  mould 
To  nature's  softest  touch  is  cold, 
Or  that  the  negro's  skin  contains 
No  bright  or  animated  veins, 
Where,  though  no  blush  its  course  betrays, 
The  blood  in  all  its  wildness  plays." 

"  WE  might  call  this  Elliottville,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott  to  her 
husband,  as  they  wandered  about  the  grounds  of  the  habitation 
which  he  had  just  rented,  and  which  were  beautiful  in  vernal 
bloom.  "  I  have  counted  at  least  several  houses  in  this  single 
green  enclosure." 

"  Each  about  as  large  as  a  humming  bird's  nest,"  answered 
her  husband  laughingly.  "  This  white  building,  with  green 
blinds  and  broad  piazza,  is  our  parlour.  The  one  on  the  right, 
with  low,  slanting  roof,  containing  three  rooms,  will  accom- 
modate us  with  a  sitting  room,  dormitory,  and  refreshmeit 
room.  Yonder,  under  the  shade  of  the  chestnut  boughs,  fo 
my  library,  and  study.  Every  building  has  its  appropriate 
office ;  and  dotting,  as  they  do,  this  smooth  green  sward,  have 
quite  a  novel  and  picturesque  effect." 

"  What  a  singular  taste  the  architect  must  have  had  !"  said 
the  lady.  "  These  little  cabins  remind  me  of  a  watering 
place,  and  far  down  in  that  wild-looking  glen,  behind  the 

(47) 


48  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

buildings,  I  hear  the  murmur  of  a  gushing  spring.  How 
charming !  But  there  is  a  house  quite  remote  from  this 
cluster,  embosomed  in  a  grove  of  young  oaks.  It  looks  as  if 
it  might  be  a  chapel,  from  its  devout,  sequestered  appearance." 

"You  can  convert  it  into  one,  if  you  please.  But  here 
comes  our  darling  Bessy.  She  will  revive  here  in  this  pure, 
sweet  air.  It  is  almost  like  living  in  the  country." 

A  young  black  girl  approached,  bearing  in  her  arms  an 
infant  of  about  nine  months  old.  The  child  was  exceedingly 
fair  and  delicate,  and  the  clear  blue  of  the  heavens  was  painted 
on  the  mirror  of  its  soft,  smiling  eyes.  It  was  lovely,  but 
wanted  the  rosy  charm  of  health,  the  spring,  the  bound  that 
belongs  to  vigorous  infancy.  The  child  seemed  to  have  in- 
herited from  its  mother,  extreme  delicacy  of  constitution,  for 
Mrs.  Elliott's  cheek  was  pale  as  the  white  rose  she  had  just 
gathered,  and  her  figure  was  slender,  even  to  fragility. 

"  Have  you  succeeded  in  your  search  ?"  she  asked  in  a 
tremulous  voice,  of  her  husband,  casting  a  tearful  glance  at 
little  Bessy,  who,  now  seated  on  the  grass,  by  her  sable  attend- 
ant, looked  round  with  a  pleased  and  wondering  expression. 

"  I  have,"  he  replied,  "  and  think  you  will  be  perfectly 
satisfied.  She  is  a  young  mulatto  woman,  of  the  name  of 
Dilsy,  with  a  little  boy,  about  one  year  old.  She  is  free,  and 
lives  by  herself,  taking  in  sewing  and  washing.  Her  husband 
is  dead,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  obstacle  to  her  accepting  the 
situation  in  our  family  you  are  anxious  to  have  filled." 

"  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  her  having  a  coloured  nurse," 
said  the  mother,  gazing  anxiously  on  the  sweet  pale  infant 
playing  in  the  grass,  "  but  I  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  our 
mutual  health.  I  should  like  to  see  this  woman." 

"  Yonder  she  comes  now,  leading  her  little  boy,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Elliott,  pointing  towards  the  gate.  "  I  told  her  to  come 
immediately,  thinking  she  would  recommend  herself  better 
than  I  could  do  it  for  her." 

"  She  has  a  very  prepossessing  countenance,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliott,  watching  with  interest  the  advancing  figure  of  Dilsy. 
"  I  think  I  could  trust  her." 

Dilsy  walked  slowly,  accommodating  her  movements  to  those 
of  her  little  boy,  who  waded  through  the  long  grass  by  her 
side,  his  black,  woolly  head  popping  up  and  down,  with  mar- 
vellous quickness,  as  if  his  journey  were  more  upward  than 
onward.  Dilsy  was  tall  and  well  formed,  and  moved  with  the 
native  grace  of  an  African.  Her  complexion  was  a  clear 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  49 

golden  brown,  and,  what  was  very  remarkable  in  one  of  her 
colour,  her  lips  had  a  tinge  of  redness  which  beautified  her 
whole  face.  She  wore  a  party-coloured  handkerchief  round  her 
head,  but  her  hair  was  visible  below  it,  and  the  crispy  wool  of 
the  African  was  straightened  and  burnished  in  her,  into  Indian 
glossiness  and  length.  She  had  an  indolent,  reposing  counte- 
nance, exceedingly  pleasant  and  rather  handsome.  Though, 
as  we  have  said,  her  own  complexion  had  a  bright  golden  tint, 
the  child  whom  she  led  by  the  hand,  was  as  black  as  ebony. 
The  white  of  his  eyes  and  the  ivory  of  his  teeth  gleamed  daz- 
zingly  from  the  little  shining,  sable  face  they  enlivened.  His 
very  short  frock  exhibited  to  the  fullest  advantage  his  round, 
glossy,  and  well  proportioned  limbs.  As  he  came  near,  he 
broke  from  his  mother's  hand,  and  began  to  make  somersets 
in  the  grass,  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  and  to  the  delight 
of  little  Bessy,  who  clapped  her  waxen  hands  and  laughed 
outright. 

"Behave  yourself,  Jim  !"  said  his  mother;  but  he  was  too 
much  engaged  in  his  antics  to  heed  her  rebuke,  and  Mrs. 
Elliott  told  her  to  let  the  children  amuse  themselves,  while 
she  questioned  her  on  the  subject  nearest  her  heart.  Her  own 
health,  and  that  of  her  infant,  were  so  feeble  that  the  physician 
had  urged  upon  her  the  necessity  of  transferring  her  child  to 
another  nurse,  as  the  only  means  of  restoring  either.  Mr. 
Elliott  had  been  for  some  time  in  search  of  a  proper  person, 
when  Dilsy  was  recommended,  who  seemed  to  possess  every 
necessary  qualification. 

"  We  can  give  her  the  chapel  for  her  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliott  j  and  Dilsy  and  little  Jim  took  possession  of  the  cabin, 
shaded  by  young  oaks,  and  the  little  fragile  Bessy  soon  de- 
rived health  and  strength  from  the  veins  of  the  handsome 
mulatto. 

The  only  objection  Mrs.  Elliott  could  make  to  Dilsy  was, 
that  she  seemed  deficient  in  sensibility.  She  never  lavished 
on  Bessy  any  of  those  endearing  caresses  which  negro  nurses 
usually  bestow  on  their  masters'  children,  thus  breaking 
down,  as  it  were,  the  dark  wall  that  separates  the  races  from 
each  other.  She  was  kind  and  attentive  to  her  charge,  but  as 
soon  as  she  had  fulfilled  her  duty,  she  would  transfer  it  with- 
out any  demonstration  of  affection  to  its  other  nurse,  and 
occupy  herself  calmly  with  her  accustomed  work.  Neither 
did  she  manifest  any  tenderness  for  her  own  child.  She  took 
great  pride  in  dressing  him  neatly,  and  when  the  ladies,  who 


50  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

visited  Mrs.  Elliott,  noticed  the  boy,  praising  his  intelligence 
and  sprightliness,  she  would  look  pleased,  but  she  was  singu- 
larly undemonstrative  j  and  it  is  not  strange  that  Mrs.  Elliott, 
whose  heart  was  always  gushing  forth  in  the  warmest  expres- 
sions of  love  to  her  child,  should  think  Dilsy  cold  and  un- 
feeling. 

"  Do  you  love  Jim  ?"  asked  she  of  her  one  day. 

"  Yes,  mistress.  To  be  sure  I  does.  He's  my  own  child, 
and  I'm  obliged  to  love  him." 

"  But  you  are  not  very  fond  of  children,  are  you?" 

"  I  never  cares  about  hugging  and  kissing  'em  as  some  does. 
I  thinks  and  feels  though,  and  would  do  as  much  to  keep 
harm  from  'em,  as  anybody  else." 

This  was  a  great  deal  for  the  quiet  mulatto  to  say.  She 
was  that  rare,  and  some  believe  fabulous  character — a  silent 
woman. 

Spring,  summer,  and  autumn  glided  away,  and  little  Bessy 
frolicked  with  Jim  about  the  beautiful  green  enclosure,  the 
picture  of  rosy  health,  as  she  was  of  angel  loveliness.  Jim 
had  grown  wonderfully.  He  was  stout,  strong,  and  brave 
as  a  little  lion,  and  as  full  of  mischief  and  pranks  as  a 
monkey.  He  could  jabber  and  dance  for  the  entertainment 
of  Mrs.  Elliott's  guests,  and  cut  more  capers  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  Bessy  than  necromancer  ever  taught. 

Dils/B  mission  was  ended,  for  Bessy,  as  the  cooler  season 
advanced,  was  gradually  withdrawn  from  her  nursing  cares. 
Mrs.  Elliott,  however,  who  had  become  attached  to  her,  in 
epite  of  her  cool,  unimpassioned  manners,  gave  her  permission 
to  remain  in  the  chapel  (as  she  always  called  the  shade-em- 
bosomed cabin),  and  continue  her  usual  occupations. 

There  was  a  young  man  of  about  twenty,  whose  father  re- 
sided somewhere  in  the  vicinity,  but  who  was  seldom  seen  at 
home.  Indeed,  he  seemed  to  live  on  horseback,  dashing 
about  on  a  wild,  black  horse,  that  no  one  could  venture  to 
ride  but  himself.  His  name  was  John  Green,  but  he  was 
known  only  by  the  appellation  of  Wild  Jack.  Wherever  he 
went  the  sound  of  clattering  hoofs  preceded  him — a  cloud  of 
dust  followed.  "  Get  out  of  the  way— Wild  Jack's  coming," 
was  the  cry  of  the  children  in  the  street,  as  they  scampered 
towards  the  fence.  In  short,  he  was  the  wild  huntsman  of  the 
country,  and  as  he  passed  along,  like  a  swift  dark  cloud,  a 
thrill  of  admiration  was  always  excited  by  his  matehless  horse- 
manship. It  was  said  he  lived  by  gambling,  for  he  was  never 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  51 

seen  to  work,  yet  the  glitter  of  silver  sparkled  through  the 
meshes  of  his  purse,  and  its  clinking  made  constant  music  in 
the  bar-room. 

One  evening,  as  Wild  Jack  was  riding  rather  more  slowly 
than  usual  along  a  back  road  that  wound  round  the  grounds 
of  Mr.  Elliott,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  little  Jim,  perched  nn 
the  top  of  the  fence,  laughing  and  clapping  his  hands,  at  the 
sight  of  the  black  steed,  and  its  shining,  flowing  mane.  Jack 
reined  in  his  horse  and  rode  directly  up  to  the  fence  where 
the  child  was  seated. 

"  Here,  jump  on  to  my  saddle,  and  I'll  teach  you  how  to  ride, 
you  little  black  rascal,"  exclaimed  the  horseman,  leaning  for- 
ward, seizing  the  child  by  the  arm  and  swinging  him  in  front 
of  himself,  as  if  he  had  no  more  weight  than  a  feather. 

"Me  feard,"  said  the  child,  shrinking  from  the  fierce, 
bright  eyes  of  Jack,  that  ran  up  and  down  his  plump  little 
body,  like  live  balls.  It  was  strange  for  him  to  express  fear. 

"  You  afraid !  why  I  took  you  for  a  man.  I'll  bring  you 
back  directly." 

Away  he  flew,  and  little  Jim  forgot  his  terrors  in  the  de- 
light of  motion,  and  the  charm  of  novelty.  Up  hill  and  down 
hill  they  went,  over  fields  and  creeks,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
gray  of  evening  began  to  darken  the  glow  of  sunset,  that  the 
little  equestrian  returned  to  the  shades  of  the  chapel.  Dilsy 
stood  at  the  fence  calling  her  truant  boy,  whose  absence  she 
had  just  discovered. 

"  Here  I  be,  mammy,"  cried  little  Jim  in  a  tone  of  exult- 
ation, holding  up  a  large  paper  of  candy,  with  which  the 
liberality  of  Wild  Jack  had  supplied  him. 

"  You've  got  the  smartest  little  fellow  here  I  ever  saw," 
said  Jack,  giving  the  child  a  swing  into  his  mother's  arms. 
"  I'm  going  to  make  a  first-rate  horseman  of  him.  Don't  you 
want  to  ride  again,  you  young  harlequin  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  delighted  child,  sucking  a  long  stick 
of  red  candy,  the  seal  of  his  friendly  compact  with  the  for- 
midable Jack. 

Dilsy  was  flattered  by  his  notice  of  her  child,  and  when, 
evening  after  evening,  he  disappeared  with  the  flying  horse- 
man, she  quietly  awaited  his  return,  without  any  misgivings 
or  apprehensions.  As  for  little  Jim,  he  conceived  a  most  ex- 
traordinary and  passionate  love  for  Wild  Jack.  For  hours 
before  his  coming,  he  would  mount  the  fence  and  strain  his 
eyeballs  and  beud  his  ear,  for  the  dusty  cloud  and  clattering 


52  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

hoofs  he  so  much  loved  to  greet.  Dilsy  became  more  and 
more  reconciled  to  his  new  passion,  as  it  kept  him  still  several 
hours  on  the  top  of  the  fence,  instead  of  gamboling  about  in 
her  way,  as  he  formerly  did. 

Once  Jim  was  gone  longer  than  usual.  It  grew  quite  dark, 
and  yet  his  little  woolly  head  was  not  seen  peeping  in  at  the 
door,  nor  was  his  childish  voice  heard  exclaiming  as  usual — 

"  Me  come  back,  mammy." 

Dilsy  had  worked  hard  during  the  day,  and  was  sitting  by 
a  warm,  bright,  lightwood  fire.  It  had  been  a  clear  frosty 
day,  and  the  contrast  of  the  cold,  bracing  atmosphere  abroad, 
and  the  glowing  heat  within,  disposed  her  to  a  kind  of  lux- 
urious drowsiness.  The  negro  sleeps  as  comfortably  and 
sweetly  in  a  split-bottomed  chair,  as  on  a  downy  bed,  and 
Dilsy  closed  her  weary  eyes,  and  slept  in  happy  unconscious- 
ness of  the  prolonged  absence  of  her  child. 

That  night,  before  Mrs.  Elliott  retired  to  rest,  she  stood  by 
the  couch  of  her  sleeping  infant,  gazing  with  a  mother's  joy 
and  gratitude  on  its  round,  roseate  cheek,  and  white,  dimpled 
arms.  She  compared  its  present  appearance  of  health  and 
strength  with  its  former  waxen  paleness  and  extreme  fragility, 
and  her  heart  swelled  with  emotions  of  thankfulness  to  Dilsy, 
who  had  been  the  instrument,  in  the  hands  of  God,  of  her 
darling's  restoration. 

"  Look  at  her,"  she  cried,  turning  to  her  husband,  while 
she  shaded  back  the  soft  flaxen  hair  from  Bessy's  snowy  fore- 
head. "  How  Sweet,  how  placid,  how  well  she  looks  !  That 
was  a  blessed  day  you  brought  Dilsy  to  me.  Had  it  not  been 
for  her,  I  do  not  think  Bessy  could  have  survived  the  summer 
months.  She  really  is  a  treasure.  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to 
do  something  to  prove  my  gratitude  to  her." 

"  Why,  you  are  proving  it  all  the  time,  my  dear.  Not  a  day 
passes  that  is  not  crowned  by  some  act  of  loving  kindness  on 
your  part,  towards  this  clever  mulatto.  I  am  sure  her  lines 
have  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  You  make  almost  as  great  a 
pet  of  Jim  as  you  do  of  Bessy.  Is  that  fine  dress  for  him  ?" 
pointing  to  a  gay  tunic  of  brilliant  scarlet,  trimmed  rather  fan- 
tastically with  black. 

"  Yes.  I  long  for  the  morrow  to  come,  to  see  him  dressed 
in  this  suit.  The  bright  red  will  set  off  so  well  his  jetty  skin. 
I  really  think  the  boy  is  handsome — he  is  so  black  and  shin- 
ing and  has  such  an  intelligent,  merry  face.  I  always  won- 
dered his  mother  did  not  show  more  fondness  for  him — her 


THE   STOLEN   CHILD.  03 

only  child,  too.  I  do  not  think  she  has  much  sensibility,  but 
a  great  deal  of  principle." 

"  All  mothers  are  not  as  foolish  as  you  are,  my  dear,"  said 
he  with  an  affectionate  smile ;  and  Mrs.  Elliott  felt,  though  he 
called  her  foolish,  he  did  not  condemn  her  folly.  She  fell 
asleep  with  the  vision  of  little  Jim,  arrayed  in  his  scarlet 
clothes,  dancing  before  her  eyes. 

She  was  awakened  by  a  cry  so  loud,  so  thrilling,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  something  sharp  was  stabbing  her  ears.  It  broke 
on  the  silence  of  night  with  terrible  distinctness,  and  sounded 
like  the  wail  of  a  breaking  heart. 

"  Good  heavens  \"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Elliott,  starting  from 
her  pillow,  "  what  cry  is  that?  It  is  in  our  own  yard." 

Mr.  Elliott  sprang  from  the  bed  and  hastily  dressing  him- 
self opened  the  door,  letting  in  as  he  did  so  a  whole  flood  of 
moonlight.  Mrs.  Elliott  rose  also,  trembling  with  terror,  and 
wrapping  herself  in  a  large  woollen  shawl,  followed  her  hus- 
band into  the  piazza.  The  cry  arose  again  more  distinctly. 
It  came  nearer,  and  the  words — 

"  My  child  !  my  child !  They've  stolen  my  child !"  were 
audible  amid  shrieks  of  agony. 

"  It's  Dilsy  !"  cried  Mrs.  Elliott.  "  Oh  !  husband,  what  is 
the  matter  ?  See  her — running  up  and  down  the  yard.  Call 
her,  for  mercy's  sake,  and  find  what  she  means." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Dilsy  came  rushing  to  the  gate, 
looking  like  a  distracted  creature,  with  her  hair  loosely  flying, 
tossing  her  arms  wildly  above  her  head. 

"  My  child  !"  she  shrieked.  "  Master — Distress — they've 
stole  him.  I  never  see  him  no  more." 

Here  she  wrung  her  hands,  and,  bursting  afresh  into  an  ex- 
ceeding loud  and  bitter  cry,  was  about  to  run  off  towards  the 
street,  when  Mr.  Elliott  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  forced 
her  into  the  house. 

"  Let  go  !"  she  cried  frantically.  "  Wild  Jack's  got  him — 
he  never  brought  him  back — he  never  will  bring  him  back 
again." 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Mr.  Elliott's  mind.  He  had  seen 
Jim  before  sunset,  mounted  in  front  of  the  Wild  Huntsman, 
and  from  Dilsy' s  broken  exclamations,  he  learned  how  long 
he  had  been  gone,  how  she  had  awakened  out  of  a  long,  deep 
sleep,  seated  by  the  cabin's  hearth,  and  how  she  remembered 
waiting  there  for  her  boy,  and  wondering  that  he  did  not 
come.  She  sought  him  and  called  him,  till  she  was  hoarse — 


54  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

Bought  him  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  caliin,  shaking 
the  "bed  clothes  as  if  he  were  a  needle  or  a  pin,  that  could  be 
hidden  in  their  seams — then  seizing  a  torch,  forgetful  of  the 
moonlight,  and  swinging  it  above  her  liend,  rushed  to  the 
wood-pile,  and  hurled  the  sticks  in  the  air,  sometimes  imagin- 
ing the  end  of  a  blackened  pine  knot  the  head  of  her  missing 
child.  At  length  came  the  horrible  conviction  that  he  was 
tulen,  carried  off,  to  be  sold  to  the  slave-trader,  and  the  cry 
which  had  banished  the  slumbers  of  Mrs.  Elliott,  was  wrung 
from  a  mother's  breaking  heart. 

All  that  kindness  and  sympathy  could  do,  was  done  by  Mrs. 
Elliott,  to  soothe  and  comfort  the  poor,  half-distracted  Dilsy. 
The  household  was  roused,  a  warm  fire  kindled,  and  warm 
covering  wrapped  round  her  chilled  and  shivering  limbs.  But 
Dilsy  refused  to  be  comforted.  The  sensibility  that  had  been 
sleeping  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  gushed  out  in  an  over- 
whelming stream.  Nor  was  it  sorrow  alone  that  stirred  the 
before  unsounded  depths  of  her  soul.  The  thirst  of  vengeance 
mingled  with  the  yearnings  of  affection,  and  infused  wormwood 
and  gall  into  the  flowing  brine.  She  threw  herself  on  the 
floor,  and  tore  her  long  Indiaa  tresses,  calling  on  her  Jim, 
her  baby,  her  child,  in  the  most  piteous  and  heart-rending 
accents. 

"  I  accused  her  of  not  feeling,"  thought  Mrs.  Elliott,  wiping 
away  her  own  fast  falling  tears.  "  Ah  !  how  little  we  know 
of  what  is  passing  in  the  heart.  Poor  creature — what  can  I 
do  to  comfort  her '{" 

"  I  will  go  over  this  moment  and  see  the  President,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Elliott.  "  The  villain  must  be  pursued  and 
overtaken.  Be  quiet,  Dilsy — you  shall  have  your  boy  again — 
we'll  see  about  it." 

"  God  Almighty  bless  you,  master — will  you  ?  God  bless 
you — will  you,  master  ?"  cried  Dilsy,  springing  up  from  the 
floor  and  shaking  back  her  dishevelled  hair,  her  eyes  glittering 
with  excitement.  "  I  thought  nobody  care  for  little  negro— 
free,  too.  Oh,  Lordy !  Jimmy — little  Jimmy !  S'pose  he 
come  back  again !" 

Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  burst  into  an  hys- 
terical laugh,  aud  picking  up  a  white  muslin  apron  of  little 
Bessy's  that  had  fallen  upon  the  floor,  began  to  wipe  her  eyes 
with  it,  without  knowing  what  she  was  doing.  In  the  mean 
tiuie,  Mr.  Elliott,  burning  with  indignation  for  the  outrage 
on  the  poor  mulatto,  walked  over,  in  the  dead  of  night  as  it 


THE    STOLEN    CHILD.  55 

was,  to  the  President's  mansion,  which  was  not  far  from  his 
own.  He  was  one  of  the  Professors  of  the  University,  which 
was  situated  on  the  beautiful  hill,  near  which  he  resided;  and 
when  the  President  was  roused  from  his  slumbers  by  the  voice 
of  Mr.  Elliott,  he  naturally  concluded  that  the  students  had 
been  detected  in  some  midnight  depredation.  He  was  a  man 
of  surpassing  benevolence  of  character,  united  to  a  stern  and 
inflexible  sense  of  justice.  He  entered  warmly  into  Mr.  El- 
liott's plans  for  the  recovery  of  the  child,  and  proposed  that 
emissaries  should  be  despatched  on  the  three  roads,  which  led 
from  the  hill,  in  pursuit  of  the  robber  and  his  prey,  promising 
to  bear  his  part  of  the  expense,  and  pledging  himself  for  the 
other  members  of  the  faculty.  Early  the  next  morning,  three 
men,  hired  by  the  President  and  professors,  started  in  three 
different  directions,  for  the  purpose  of  tracking  the  human, 
bloodhound. 

It  has  been  said  that  self-interest  alone  prompts  the  white 
man  to  be  kind  to  the  negro  race — that  he  feeds,  and  clothes, 
and  warms  him,  because  he  is  his  own  property,  and  he  him- 
self would  suffer,  if  his  slave  were  neglected  or  wronged.  This 
may  be  the  case  in  some  instances,  but  it  certainly  was  not  in 
this.  Here  was  a  poor,  humble,  unprotected  mulatto,  a  free 
woman,  with  a  free  child.  She  enriched  no  one,  she  belonged 
to  no  one ;  her  child  was  her  own  property,  and  its  loss  im- 
poverished no  one  but  herself.  And  yet,  in  defence  of  this 
woman's  rights,  for  the  recovery  of  her  stolen  boy,  were  en- 
listed the  sympathies  and  influence  of  the  dignified  President 
of  a  celebrated  University,  and  its  intelligent  and  learned 
professors.  Was  this  self-interest  ?  No,  it  was  divine  philan- 
thropy ;  it  was  the  acknowledgment  of  that  bond  which  unites 
the  great  brotherhood  of  mankind,  and  which  is  drawn  closer 
and  closer  by  misfortunes  and  wrongs.  Dilsy  and  her  child 
were  of  the  lowly  African  race,  and  yet  how  many  hearts  were 
now  throbbing  in  unison  with  hers ;  how  many  prayers  were 
ascending  to  heaven  for  the  recovery  of  her  child  I 


56  WILD  JACK;  OR, 


PART  SECOND. 

"  God  help  me,  in  my  grievous  need ; 
God  help  me,  in  my  inward  pain, 
Which  cannot  ask  for  pity's  meed ; 
Which  has  no  license  to  complain  ; 
Which  must  be  borne,  yet  who  can  bear 
Hours  long,  days  long,  a  constant  weight, 
The  yoke  of  absolute  despair, 
A  suffering  wholly  desolate  ?" 

Two  weary  days  passed  away,  and  no.  tidings  of  the  lost 
«hild.  The  wild  agony  of  the  mother  had  settled  down  into  a 
kind  of  stupor,  the  result  of  despair.  Mrs.  Elliott  kept  her 
in  the  house,  and,  by  giving  little  Bessy  entirely  to  her  charge, 
tried  to  interest  her  feelings  and  divert  her  attention  from  her 
own  sorrows.  She  did  this  in  kindness,  but  perhaps  it  was 
an  error  in  judgment,  for  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  child, 
blooming  in  the  security  of  home,  reminded  her  only  more 
vividly  of  her  own  wandering  boy.  She  would  sit  for  hours, 
gazing  with  a  dull,  vague  look,  on  the  little  scarlet  dress,  so 
fancifully  margined  with  jetty  braid,  hanging  conspicuously 
on  the  wall. 

"  Some  how  or  other,  mistress,"  she  said  mournfully,  "  that 
looks  just  like  Jim's  shroud.  To  look  at  it  long,  it  turns  all 
over  black." 

"  You  will  see  little  Jimmy  wear  it  before  long,"  replied 
Mrs.  Elliott,  kindly.  "  When  so  many  are  interested  in  his 
recovery,  it  is  almost  impossible  that  he  should  not  be  found." 

"  Oh,  mistress,  that  black  horse  goes  like  the  wind.  No- 
body could  catch  him.  'Taint  like  other  horses.  O  dear  !  0 
Lord  !  how  I  wish  I'd  never  let  Jimmy  get  up  with  that  awful 
man." 

The  second  night  one  of  the  men  returned,  weary,  and  un- 
successful. He  had  perceived  no  trace  of  the  fugitives,  and, 
convinced  they  must  have  taken  some  other  route,  thought  it 
best  to  return.  The  next  morning  the  other  two  also  came 
back,  but  without  the  child.  One  of  them,  however,  imparted 
information  of  great  interest.  He  had  followed  in  the  track 
of  a  young  man,  mounted  on  si  fiery  black  horse,  who  had 
been  seen  at  early  dawn,  riding  along,  with  a  little  child  be- 


THE   STOLEN   CHILD.  57 

fore  him.  The  description  corresponded  exactly  to  Wild  Jack, 
and  the  man  was  sure  of  overtaking  the  robber,  but  he  soon 
came  where  four  roads  met,  and  knew  not  which  way  to  turn. 
In  his  perplexity,  he  suffered  one  of  the  superstitions  of  his 
childhood  to  guide  him,  and  he  directed  his  course  to  the 
rising  sun.  In  the  course  of  the  day  he  heard  of  a  slave- 
trader,  who  had  passed  that  way  with  a  large  number  of  slaves, 
and  among  them  was  a  little  boy,  of  the  age  of  Jim,  who  was 
represented,  like  him,  to  be  black  as  polished  ebony.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  Wild  Jack  had  had  an  understanding  with 
the  man,  and  sold  to  him  the  stolen  child. 

The  emissary,  who  was  not  a  bold  man,  thought  not  of  con- 
tending with  one  of  these  desperate  characters,  but  imme- 
diately turned  his  face  homeward,  to  communicate  the  facts 
which  had  come  to  his  knowledge. 

Dark  were  the  clouds  that  now  gathered  round  the  fate  of 
little  Jim.  While  the  man  was  returning,  Tie  was  borne  still 
further  from  them,  on  a  wild,  unfrequented  road,  and  perhaps 
even  then  he  was  transferred  to  some  other  master,  who  might 
be  bearing  him  away  on  the  wings  of  the  morning. 

Mr.  Elliott  sat  with  the  President  in  his  office,  with  an 
anxious  and  troubled  countenance.  While  they  were  engaged 
in  earnest  conversation  on  the  subject,  the  door  opened,  and 
Mr.  Green,  the  father  of  Wild  Jack,  was  announced. 

He  was  a  meek,  sorrowful-looking  man,  with  a  stooping 
frame  and  downcast  countenance.  One  might  look  in  vain  in 
his  pale,  dim  eyes,  thin  cheeks,  and  melancholy  mouth,  for 
any  resemblance  to  the  bright,  fierce,  wicked  face  of  Wild 
Jack. 

There  was  something  in  his  appearance  that  appealed  irre- 
sistibly to  the  compassionate  feelings  of  the  gentlemen ;  and 
the  President,  moved  by  commiseration,  as  well  as  by  habitual 
politeness,  addressed  him  kindly,  and  offered  him  a  seat,  by 
the  ample  and  blazing  fire.  But  he  would  not  be  seated.  Ho 
stood  with  his  hat  crushed  between  his  knees,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  conscious  unworthiness,  and  the  worn  and  crushed  hat 
seemed  a  meet  emblem  of  his  crushed  and  grief-worn  heart. 
The  father  of  a  wicked,  law-defying  son,  whom  he  had  in  vain 
endeavoured  to  "  train  up  in  the  way  he  should  go/'  must  feel 
abject  and  wretched. 

"  Are  there  any  tidings  of  your  son,  sir  ?"  asked  the  Presi- 
dent, breaking  the  silence,  which  began  to  be  irksome. 

"I've  heard  of  the  lost  child,  sir,"  he  replied  meekly, 
421 


58  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

"  and  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  if  you'll  stop  the  search  after 
him,  he  shall  be  brought  back  day  after  to-morrow  night 
Yes,  sir,  I'll  swear  on  the  Bible,  if  you  say  so,  that  what  I 
say  is  the  truth." 

The  gentlemen  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise.  Ihey 
knew  but  little  of  Mr.  Green,  and,  judging  of  him  by  the  cha- 
ir.cter  of  his  son,  as  people  are  apt  to  do,  imagined  him  to  be 

man  with  very  dim  perceptions  of  right  and  wrong.  He 
was  considered  a  poor  man,  owning  a  small  farm  and  a  few 
negroes,  whose  work  he  shared  while  he  superintended  their 
kbours.  Jack  was  his  only  son,  whose  birth  and  his  mother's 
death  were  simultaneous  events.  Poor  Jack  !  had  he  ever 
known  a  mother's  restraining  influence  and  tender  watchful- 
ness, his  evil  propensities  would  never  have  acquired  their 
present  rank  and  poisonous  luxuriance. 

"  This  is  very  strange,"  said  the  President,  fixing  his  eyes 
sternly  on  his  agitated  and  working  features.  "  Am  I  to  con- 
sider you  an  accomplice  with  your  son  in  this  felonious  act  T' 

The  poor  man  looked  up  to  heaven  with  an  humble,  depre- 
cating air,  and  the  President  felt  something  knocking  against 
his  heart,  painfully  and  reproachfully.  He  had  no  son  of  his 
own,  but  he  could  comprehend  what  were  a  father's  feelings, 
and  he  knew  those  of  a  man. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  criminate  or  defend  myself,  sir; 
neither  did  I  come  to  defend  my  son.  It  wouldn't  do  any 
good,  if  I  did,  for  you  all  know  him.  I  don't  pretend  to 
deny  that  he's  carried  off  the  child.  I  know  if  he's  taken,  his 
life  will  be  forfeited.  But  I  don't  think  he  can  be.  He's  got 
a  way  that  nobody  ever  had  before.  I  sometimes  think  an 
evil  spirit  is  in  him — but  he  is  my  son,  for  all  that — all  that 
I've  got  in  the  world.  He's  bone  of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of 
my  flesh,  given  me  by  his  mother,  now  in  heaven.  You  can't 
catch  Jack,  but  you  can  keep  him  from  coming  near  me  as 
long  as  I  live.  You  will  advertise  him  and  set  a  price  on  his 
head,  and  it  will  be  all  right." 

"  To  be  sure,  it  will,"  interrupted  the  President  emphati- 
cally, and  Mr.  Elliott's  clear  eye  pronounced  amen. 

"  You  can  do  it,"  continued  Mr.  Green,  "  but  with  all  that, 
it  is  very  doubtful  whether  you  ever  see  him  or  the  boy 
either.  But  I  promise  you  solemnly,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  all 
keep  quiet  and  say  nothing,  that  day  after  to  morrow  night, 
at  about  midnight,  the  child  shall  be  in  front  of  Mr.  Porter's 


THE   STOLEN   CHILD.  59 

tavern.  If  he's  not  there,  you  may  take  me,  put  me  in  jail, 
and  hang  me  in  place  of  my  son." 

There  was  an  air  of  such  earnestness  and  sincerity  about  the 
man,  combined  with  such  profound  melancholy,  that  they  were 
both  deeply  impressed.  .They  were  beginning  to  be  convinced 
of  the  hopelessness  of  pursuit,  and  were  ready  to  listen  to  any 
proposition  which  reason  might  sanction  and  justice  approve. 

"  If  we  put  faith  in  your  promises  and  suspend  our  present 
efforts,"  said  the  President,  whose  inflexible  justice  xipbraided 
him  for  a  too  easy  surrender  of  his  judgment,  "  and  your  son 
should  appear  again  in  our  midst,  we  cannot  suffer  so  danger- 
ous an  individual  to  be  at  large.  The  law  must  claim  its 
due." 

"  He  never  shall  appear  among  you.  He  never  again  shall 
disturb  the  peace  of  this  community.  We  will  both  seek  a 
home  remote  from  this,  where,  I  trust,  he  will  begin  a  new 
and  better  life." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  President,  looking  at  Mr.  Elliott. 

Mr.  Elliott  bowed  his  head  in  token  of  assent,  and  Mr. 
Green  was  assured  that  on  the  faith  of  his  promise,  they  would 
suspend  the  pursuit  and  wait  the  coming  of  the  child. 

"  I  pray  you,"  said  Mr.  Green  in  departing,  "  not  to  allow 
a  crowd  to  collect  round  the  tavern.  Let  the  mother  be  there 
waiting,  but  say  nothing  to  anybody  else.  If  anything  hap- 
pens to  keep  the  child,  you  will  find  me  at  my  farm,  ready  to 
give  myself  into  your  hands,  for  imprisonment  or  death." 

It  is  not  strange  that  Dilsy  should  not  believe  the  promise 
of  Mr.  Green,  or  that  she  should  consider  her  boy  as  lost  for 
ever.  Two  more  long,  weary  days  were  to  pass,  before  the 
appointed  hour,  in  heart  sickness  and  anguish.  She  could  not 
sit  still,  but  wandered  like  a  restless  ghost  about  the  grounds, 
with  little  Bessy  warmly  clasped  in  her  arms,  who  would  fix 
her  soft  blue  eyes  in  mute  wonder  on  her  dark,  despairing 
countenance,  and  sometimes  wipe  away  a  large  tear  from  the 
mulatto's  cheek,  with  her  snow-white,  dimpled  hand.  She 
would  stand  at  the  gate,  and  look  up  and  down  the  road,  till 
her  strained  and  dazzled  glance  could  see  nothing  in  the 
bright  sunshine,  but  a  painful  glitter,  obscure  as  darkness. 

"  You  are  wrong  to  give  up  to  despair,  Dilsy,"  said  Mrs. 
Elliott,  "  when  so  much  has  been  done  for  you.  You've  told 
me  sometimes  that  you  had  no  friends — that  a  poor,  free 
mulatto  couldn't  have  any.  You  see  you  are  mistaken.  If 
my  J3e.isy  was  stolen  away,  there  could  not  be  more  active 


60  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

measures  taken  to  restore  her  to  my  arms.  You  must  not  be 
ungrateful,  Dilsy." 

"•I  don't  mean  to  be,  mistress — you're  too  good.  I  knows 
it — I  feels  it — but  I  can't  talk.  Ah,  mistress,  nobody  would 
think  of  stealing  your  baby.  Nobody  would  buy  a  white 
baby." 

A  flush  passed  over  Mrs.  Elliott's  white  cheek,  as  she  re- 
plied— .  - 

"  White  children  are  sometimes  stolen,  as  many  a  weeping 
mother  can  bear  witness.  But  it  is  not  often  the  case  in  this 
country.  But,  Dilsy,  Mr.  Elliott  firmly  believes  Mr.  Green's 
promise,  and  is  sure  that  Jimmy  will  come  back  again.  You 
should  put  trust  in  God,  if  not  in  man,  for  his  promise  never 
fails." 

"  I  can't  think  of  any  promise  to  comfort  me,"  said  the  poor 
mulatto. 

"  He  suffers  not  a  sparrow  to  fall  to  the  ground  without  his 
knowledge,  and  He  feedeth  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry." 

"  That  may  mean  little  Jimmy.  He's  black  like  the 
raven,"  said  Dilsy,  thoughtfully,  "and  he's  got  nobody  to  feed 
him  now  if  God  don't." 

She  brought  the  white  muslin  apron  of  Bessy's  which  she 
had  moistened  with  tears  on  the  night  of  Jimmy's  abduction, 
and  presented  it,  nicely  washed  and  starched,  to  Mrs.  Elliott. 

"  Beg  pardon,  mistress,"  said  she.  "  I  didn't  know  nothing 
of  what  I  was  doing,  or  I  wouldn't  have  used  it  so." 

"  You  have  not  hurt  it,  Dilsy.  A  mother's  tears  are  sacred. 
Keep  it,  and  when  Jimmy  comes  back  you  must  dress  him  in 
the  scarlet  tunic,  and  this  pretty  apron,  and  carry  him  round 
as  a  show-boy.  They  who  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy, 
Dilsy." 

As  the  night  appointed  for  the  child's  restoration  drew  on, 
Mr.  Elliott  himself  lost  his  sanguine  hopes,  and  became  anx- 
ious and  restless.  He  feared  that  he  had  been  duped  by  the 
elder  Green,  who  had  probably  had  recourse  to  ,a  stratagem, 
to  gain  time  for  his  son's  escape  from  justice.  He  thought 
he  would  feel  very  foolish  to  wait  half  the  night,  as  he  in- 
tended to  do,  at  the  tavern,  for  the  fulfilment  of  a  solemn 
promise,  and  then  find  he  had  been  baffled  and  deceived. 

It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  to  let  Dilsy  go  alone,  for,  should 
his  doubts  be  confirmed,  he  could  not  bear  to  witness  her  grief 
and  despair.  Yet,  when  night  came  on,  an  irresistible  impulse 
urged  him  to  the  spot,  where  a  crowd  was  already  assembled, 


THE   STOLEN   CHILD.  01 

and  among  them  was  the  grave  and  reverend  President.  This 
gathering  was  "  not  in  the  bond,"  for  secrecy.,  had  been  en- 
joined, but  Dilsy  could  not  keep  her  own  counsel.  Her  heart 
was  too  full  not  to  overflow,  and  the  curiosity  of  the  whole 
neighbourhood  was  excited  by  the  information. 

The  President  was  obliged  to  make  a  long  harangue  before 
he  could  induce  the  people  to  condense  themselves  within 
doors,  so  as  not  to  frighten  away  the  being,  whoever  it  might 
be,  whose  mission  it  was  to  restore  the  stolen  child.  His 
words  had  the  desired  effect,  and  Dilsy  was  left  alone  in  the 
piazza,  counting  each  moment  of  the  waning  hours  by  the 
quick  beatings  of  her  throbbing  heart.  Mr.  Elliott  had  lent 
her  his  large,  warm  cloak,  to  wrap  around  her,  for  the  night 
air  was  cold  and  frosty.  She  did  not  feel  it,  however,  so  great 
was  the  tension  of  her  mind.  If  she  walked  the  length  of  the 
piazza  once,  she  did  hundreds  of  times,  while  the  big  tavern 
clock,  that  great  auctioneer  of  time,  kept  ringing  with  its  iron 
tongue,  "  going,  going,  gone."  Yes  !  the  hours  were  going, 
slowly,  but  surely.  Ten,  eleven — twelve  was  near  at  hand. 

It  was  a  clear,  cloudless  night.  The  moon  shone  with  the 
pallid  glory  peculiar  to  a  Southern  wintry  night,  as  sweetly 
and  calmly  as  if  there  were  no  scenes  of  rapine  and  anguish 
passing  beneath  her  holy  beams.  Large  pine-fires  were  blazing 
in  the  chimneys,  throwing  a  red  glare  upon  the  window  panes, 
and  lighting  up,  with  more  than  noonday  brightness,  the  pro- 
miscuous groups  within.  It  was  strange  to  see  the  majestic 
President  and  dignified  professors  in  such  company,  especially 
at  that  unwonted  hour.  It  must  have  been  a  strong  motive 
to  induce  them  to  leave  their  families  and  homes  during  the 
silent  watches  of  the  night — to  haunt  a  tavern,  too — such 
sober,  pious  men,  as  they  were :  and  this  motive  was  the 
restitution  of  the  wrongs  of  a  poor  mulatto,  the  restoration  of 
a  little  negro  boy.  Verily,  there  is  some  humanity,  some 
Christian  benevolence,  at  the  South,  notwithstanding  the 
strenuous  efforts  to  prove  the  contrary. 

Hark !  the  clock  strikes  twelve — that  is  the  appointed  hour. 
Yes  !  just  at  twelve,  said  the  elder  Green,  the  boy  should  be 
returned.  The  people  rushed  to  the  doors  and  windows,  and 
would  have  passed  into  the  street  had  they  not  been  restrained 
by  the  commanding  voice  of  the  President. 

Dilsy  pressed  forward,  and  winding  one  arm  around  a  pillar 
of  the  piazza,  for  she  felt  suddenly  very  weak,  leaned  out  into 
the  moonbeams,  that  burnished  with  silver  her  golden-coloured 


62  WILD  JACK;  OR, 

forehead.  All  was  still  'abroad  j  not  an  evergreen  leaf  qui- 
vered in  the  /rosty  atmosphere.  The  road  was  white  and 
sandy,  and  had  a  ghost-like  look,  stretching  on,  long  and 
winding,  into  the  dark  pine  woods. 

Dilsy  stood  panting  against  the  pillar,  when  suddenly  her 
eyes  kindled  with  revengeful  fire.  "  It  was  all  a  base  sham .; 
they  never  were  going  to  bring  him  back ;  Master  Elliott 
knew  it  all  the  time ;  they  were  all  making  a  fool  of  her ; 
there  was  no  truth  in  white  folks,  not  one  of  them."  While 
these  dark,  vindictive  thoughts,  rolled  through  her  mind,  she 
heard  the  distant  sound  of  something,  she  scarcely  knew  what. 
.  The  soil  was  too  sandy,  along  the  road  that  ran  along  in  front 
of  the  tavern,  for  hoofs  to  .clatter,  but  still  she  knew  that  a 
horseman  was  approaching.  A  black  speck  seemed  to  be 
driven  swiftly  along  over  sandy  waves ;  it  grew  larger  and 
larger,  came  swifter  and  swifter,  till  the  outlines  of  Wild  Jack 
and  his  black  horse  were  distinctly  visible ;  and  perched  in 
front  of  him  was  a  little  child,  as  black  as  a  starless  midnight. 
Dilsy  gave  a  sharp,  loud  shriek,  and  sprang,  with  one  bound, 
down  the  steps.  The  people  rushed  after  her  with  considerable 
vehemence.  Whirling  the  child  by  one  arm  from  the  saddle 
to  the  ground,  Wild  Jack  dashed  his  spurs  into  his  horse's 
flanks,  and  went  off  with  the  speed  of  the  whirlwind.  One 
might  as  well  think  of  overtaking  the  whirlwind,  as  this  fierce, 
wild  youth.  A  yell,  loud  as  an  Indian  warwhoop,  rent  the 
silence,  and  some  plunged  into  the  sand,  in  a  vain  effort  of 
pursuit. 

"  Oh  !  Jimmy,  Jimmy  !"  exclaimed  his  mother,  snatching 
up  the  shivering  child,  and  folding  him  in  her  cloak — "  is  it 
you  ?" 

"  Yes,  it's  me,  mammy,"  answered  a  little,  weak  voice. 
The  mulatto  burst  into  tears.  Those  little,  feeble  accents 
told  a  tale  of  suffering  and  privation. 

"  Bring  him  in,  bring  him'  in  to  the  fire,"  cried  many 
voices,  and  Dilsy,  staggering  like  a  drunken  woman,  made  her 
way  through  the  crowd  in  the  door-way  and  sunk  down  on  a 
seat  near  the  fire. 

Poor  little  Jimmy  did  indeed  look  as  if  he  had  endured 
sufferings,  which  he  was  too  youpg  to  relate.  His  round  fat 
cheeks  were  thin  and  hollow,  and  his.  bright  eyes  had  a  dim, 
strange,  bewildered  look,  that  it  was  painful  to  witness.  The 
back  part  of  his  dress  was  all  worn  to  tatters,  and  his  woolly 
head  was  all  bristling  with  burs  and  tangled  with  loaves.  He 


THE   STOLEN   CHILD.  63 

was  as  cold  as  an  icicle,  and  when  brought  near  the  hot  blaze, 
he  began  to  cry  bitterly. 

"  Remove  farther  from  the  fire — it  makes  his  numb 
limbs  ache,"  said  Mr.  Elliott ;  "  he  must  be  warmed  gradu- 
ally." 

Had  Jimmy  been  a  young  prince,  instead  of  an  unowned 
negro  child,  he  could  not  have  been  treated  with  more 
kindness  and  consideration.  He  had  warm  milk  and  nice 
warm  buttered  biscuit  brought  him  to  eat,  and  warm  flannel 
rolled  around  him,  till  the  painful,  bewildered  expression  of 
his  face  changed  to  one  of  dreamy  satisfaction.  They  began 
to.  question  him,  but  all  he  could  answer  was — "  Don't  know." 
His  dawning  faculties  seemed  obscured  by  the  fright  and  suf- 
ferings of  the  few  past  days.  He  soon  fell  asleep  in  his 
mother's  arms,  that  aoft  cradle  from  which  the  poor  little  fel- 
low had  been  so  cruelly  torn  away. 

Dilsy's  softened  heart  was  now  overflowing  with  gratitude  to 
the  white  friends  who  had  exerted  themselves  so  energetically 
in  her  cause.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  hard,  vindictive  feel- 
ings, and  inwardly  resolved  never  again  to  cherish  them.  She 
had  a  good  deal  of  the  Indian  in  her  nature,  as  was  indicated 
by  her  straight,  shining  hair.  She  was  quick  to  resent  and~ 
slow  to  forgive  an  injury,  but  the  remembrance  of  blessings 
conferred  was  lasting  as  life. 

Mrs.  Elliott  wept  with  joy,  when  her  husband  returned  ac- 
companied by  the  reunited  mother  and  child,  and  then  she 
wept  with  grief  over  his  forlorn  and  altered  appearance.  Such 
a  long  and  terrible  journey  on  horseback,  as. he  must  have 
had  with  Wild  Jack,  was  enough  to  kill  an  older  child. 
Little  Jimmy  must  have  been  made  of  tough  materials,  not 
to  have  been  shaken  and  battered  to  pieces.  His  flesh  was  sore 
and  bruised,  and  in  many  places  his  dusky  skin  was  lacerated 
and  worn  off.  But  kind  hands  anointed  him,  and  the  wounds 
of  a  child's  body  are  healed  almost  as  soon  as  those  of  his 
heart.  After  a  day's  rest  and  nursing,  he  was  bright  enough 
to  be  arrayed  in  the  dazzling  scarlet  suit  and  white  muslia 
apron.  The  apron  did  not  look  quite  in  place,  but  Dilsy  said 
she  loved  it  better  than  anything  she  had,  and  she  wouldn't 
have  him  leave  it  off  for  anything.  Jimmy  looked  really  quite 
magnificent  in  his  royal-hued  raiment,  and  as  all  the  burs 
were  picked  out  of  his  head,  and  his  cheeks  were  already  be- 
ginning to  round  themselves,  "  little  Richard  was  himself 
again." 


64        WILD  JACK;  OR,  THE  STOLEN  CHILD. 

Dilsy  carried  him  from  house  to  house,  in  triumph,  while 
a  younger  nurse  toted  the  fair  blue-eyed  Bessy,  who  was  only 
a  satellite  to  the  primary  planet  Jim,  on  this  memorable  oc- 
casion ;  Jimmy  was  emphatically  the  young  Lion  of  the  day, 
and  great  regret  was  expressed  that  he  could  not  relate  his 
adventures.  At  first,  all  he  could  say  was,  "  I  don't  know." 
Now  his  invariable  answer  to  every  question  was,  "  Wild 
Jack."  That  fierce,  bright  image  was  for  ever  darting  across 
his  little  mind,  and  for  a  time  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  any 
other  would  ever  be  imprinted  there. 

The  ladies  loaded  him  with  presents,  and  if  Dilsy  had  suf- 
fered much,  she  also  rejoiced  much,  and  in  consequence  loved 
much.  She  was  certainly  better  and  happier  after  this  event 
than  before.  She  had  cherished  the  idea  that  nobody  cared 
anything  about  her  or  hers.  Even  the  kindness  of  Mrs. 
Elliott  she  thought  selfish,  because  she  was  necessary  to  her 
child.  Now,  she  acknowledged  the  existence  of  disinterested 
benevolence,  and  her  heart  warmed  and  expanded  under  its 
genial  influence. 

The  history  of  Jim,  during  his  days  of  absence,  was  never 
known.  It  was  conjectured  that  Mr.  Green  had  bought  him 
back  from  the  trader  to  whom  his  son  had  sold  him,  at  the 
sacrifice  of  his  little  farm  and  possessions ;  for  they  were  all 
sold,  and  the  master  departed  to  some  unknown  regions, 
probably  accompanied  by  his  reprobate  son. 

The  wild  equestrian  was  never  again  seen,  flying  along  on 
his  raven  steed,  after  he  had  darkened  for  a  moment  the 
moonlight  night  we  have  described.  Whether  he  has  re- 
pented of  his  evil  ways,  or  keeps  rushing  on  the  downward 
road  that  leads  to  death,  we  have  never  learned. 

The  following  summer  little  Jim  was  playing  blithely  on 
the  green  by  the  side  of  the  blue-eyed  Bessy.  He  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  Wild  Jack ;  yet  if  a  horse  came  galloping  by, 
he  would  jump  up  and  run  to  his  mother,  and  bury  his  face  in 
her  lap. 

There  is  no  romance  in  the  story  of  Jimmy,  but  there  is 
truth,  without  any  alloy  of  fiction.  We  have  related  it,  as  one 
of  many  instances  of  Southern  kindness  and  humanity  to  a 
lowly  race — whose  feelings  the  Southron  is  too  often  accused 
of  disregarding  and  trampling  under  foot. 


BELL  AND   ROSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  0  !  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 
Is  beauty,  curtained  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 
One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, 
The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea, 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 
Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity." — MOORE. 

"  I  AM  so  thirsty,  brother.  I  must  have  some  of  the  water 
gushing  from  that  spring.  Oh  !  it  looks  so  cool  and  inviting." 

Thus  exclaimed  Bell  Raymond,  to  her  brother  Frank,  rein- 
ing in  her  horse  as  she  spoke.  They  were  both  on  horseback, 
having  taken  a  long  jaunt  into  the  country,  to  visit  some 
friends ;  and  now  on  their  homeward  way,  Bell  began  to  be  a 
little  weary,  and  very  thirsty,  and  very  warm.  She  caught 
sight  of  a  silver,  singing  spring,  flashing  through  a  little 
thicket  of  shrubbery,  and  nothing  would  serve  but  a  draught 
of  the  sparkling  water. 

"  We  have  no  cup/'  said  Frank. 

"  You  can  make  one  of  oak  leaves." 

'•'  I  see  a  nice  little  cottage,  a  few  yards  ahead,  where  we  can 
barow  a  drinking  utensil.  Who  knows  but  there  is  some 
sweet  little  country  lassie  there — a  rose  in  the  wilderness  ? 
Shall  I  go  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  will  accompany  you,"  said  Bell,  springing 
from  her  horse,  and  gathering  up  her  riding  dress  with  an  im- 
patient gesture. 

"  I  do  despise  these  long,  sweeping  skirts,"  said  she,  tossing 
the  folds  over  her  left  arm  j  "  they  are  so  wretchedly  in  one's 
way." 

"  But  they  arc  so  graceful,  Bell." 

<65) 


66  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

"  What's  the  use  of  being  graceful,  with  no  one  to  admire 
me,  but  a  brother  ?"  said  she,  laughing. 

While  they  were  talking,  they  were  getting  near  the  cot- 
tage, which,  though  a  rough,  unpainted,  low  and  time-worn 
building,  had  still  an  air  of  neatness  and  comfort,  and  even 
taste  was  not  wanting — for  there  were  vines  trained  to  shade 
the  low  windows,  and  flowerpots  were  placed  against  the  wall. 

"  There  she  is,  by  all  that  is  charming  I"  whispered  Frank, 
as  a  young  girl  of  apparently  seventeen  or  eighteen  summers, 
came  to  the  door,  with  a  very  bright  blush,  and  very  sweet 
smile,  and  a  very  low  curtsy,  and  asked  them  to  walk  in. 
She  looked  bashful  and  embarrassed,  but  not  awkwardly  so, 
and  though  her  dress  was  of  plain  domestic,  it  fitted  so  per- 
fectly to  her  lithe  and  slender  figure,  one  would  hardly  wish 
it  exchanged  for  silk  or  muslin.  A  knot  of  pink  ribbon,  that 
fastened  her  hair  behind,  relieved  the  plainness  of  her  attire, 
and  matched  the  roses  of  her  slightly  sun-burned  cheek. 

Bell,  to  the  surprise  of  her  brother,  instead  of  asking  for  a 
cup,  accepted  the  invitation  to  walk  in,  and  followed  the  young 
cottager  through  a  narrow  passage,  into  the  plainest,  most 
primitive-looking  apartment  she  had  ever  entered.  Frank,  de- 
lighted with  an  adventure  which  opened  so  auspiciously,  fol- 
lowed her  with  a  number  of  superfluous  bows,  intended  no 
doubt  to  make  a  favourable  impression  on  the  young  hostess. 
The  furniture  consisted  of  a  half-dozen  plain  chairs,  a  table  of 
stained  pine,  and  an  old-fashioned  clock,  with  a  moon-face, 
and  a  startlingly  loud  tick.  The  chimney  was  ornamented 
with  fresh,  odorous  pine-boughs,  and  some  beautiful  wild 
flowers  adorned  the  mantelpiece.  But  a  still  greater  orna- 
ment appeared  in  the  shape  of  books,  arranged  on  a  shelf, 
on  the  right  of  the  fire-place,  and  which  Frank's  quick  eye 
detected  the  moment  he  entered  the  room. 

"  I  fear  we  intrude,"  said  Bell,  seating  herself  at  the  same 
time,  with  a  very-much-at-home  air;  "but  we  called  to  beg  a 
cup,  to  dip  water  from  your  beautiful  spring.  I  have  been 
riding  so  far,  and  am  so  very  thirsty — then  it  is  so  insuffer- 
ably warm  !" 

Untying  the  ribbons  that  fastened  her  plumed  riding-cap, 
she  threw  it  upon  the  next  chair,  and  shook  her  beautiful  hair 
back  from  her  moist  forehead. 

"  Really,  Bell,  you  do  make  yourself  very  much  at  home," 
exclaimed  her  brother.  "  One  would  think  you  were  prepar- 
*ug  to  stay  hours  instead  of  moments." 

"  I  would  npt  care  how  long  I  stayed,"  replied  she,  looking 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  67 

eagerly  round  her.  "  This  is  such  a  cool,  shady,  quiet  spot 
— I  am  perfectly  in  love  with  it.  But  please  get  me  some 
water — that  is,  if  the  young  lady  will  be  kind  enough  to  lend 
us  a  cup." 

"  I  will  get  you  some,  with  pleasure,"  cried  the  young  girl, 
turning  quickly  to  the  door. 

"  By  no  means,"  exclaimed  Frank,   springing  after   her. 
"I  cannot  allow  you  to  take  so  much   trouble.     I  am  ac-j 
customed  to  wait  on  my  sister^  who,  I  assure  you,  is  a  very 
arbitrary  young  lady." 

"  It  is  no  trouble,"  said  she,  quietly  gliding  between  him 
and  the  door,  and  stepping  across  the  threshold. 

"  Well,  let  me  go  and  assist  you,"  he  cried,  with  persever- 
ing gallantry,  and  was  about  to  follow  her,  when  Bell  called 
after  him : 

"  Don't,  Frank.  You  embarrass  her.  She  does  not  wish 
you  to  go." 

"  Embarrass  her !  Why,  she  has  as  much  self-possession  as 
you  have,  though  not  half  the  impudence.  Bless  you,  Bell, 
for  being  seized  with  a  fit  of  thirst  on  this  identical  spot,  and 
for  discovering  the  spring,  which  entirely  escaped  my  heedless 
eye.  But  let  us  peep  into  those  books,  and  perhaps  we  can 
find  out  the  name  of  our  bonnie  lassie.  Well  done  !  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake,  to  begin  with.  There  is  poetry  for  you — and 
here's  her  own  sweet  name,  I  am  confident — Rose  Mayfield. 
Rose,  sweet  Rose,  flower  of  the  wilderness  and  blossom  of  the 
vale.  Was  there  ever  anything  so  appropriate  ?" 

"  Brother  !  how  foolishly  you  run  on.  But  she  really  is 
a  nice,  pretty  girl,  and  I  like  her.  To  think  of  finding  her 
here  alone — she  must  have  somebody  living  with  her,  surely 
— and  these  books !  How  in  the  world  came  she  by  those 
books  ?  There  are  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  Rollin's  History,  and 
Cowper,  and  Milton,  and  Thomson.  Bless  me,  what  a  classic 
library !" 

"  She's  coming/*  exclaimed  Frank,  glancing  from  the  win- 
dow, "  with  all  the  grace  of  a  Hebe,  and  all  the  lightness  of  a 
wood-nymph.  She  is  a  perfect  fac-simile  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake  : 

"  What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grase 
Has  trained  her  mood  to  measured  pace, 
A  step  more  light,  a  foot  more  true, 
Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashed  the  dew: 
E'en  the  light  harebell  lifts  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread." . 


08  BELL   AND    ROSE. 

J5,ose — for  such  was  indeed  her  name — came  in  while  the 
last  line  was  upon  his  lips,  with  a  waiter,  upon  which  were 
two  tumblers  of  the  clearest  and  purest  crystal.  Bell  did  not 
believe  the  establishment  contained  such  luxuries.  Never  did 
water  taste  so  cold  and  so  refreshing.  Frank  drank  it  very 
slowly,  looking  at  the  Hebe  through  the  bottom  of  the  glass, 
whose  irregular  surface  multiplied  her  into  myriad  forms. 

"  You  are  fond  of  reading,  I  see,"  remarked  Bell.  "  You 
have  some  choice  books  here." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Rose,  "  I  do  love  reading  very  much.  I 
can  hardly  dream  of  a  greater  pleasure." 

"  When  I  ride  this  way  again  I  will  bring  you  some  books," 
said  Frank;  "you  have  probably  read  all  these." 

"  Oh  !  many  times,"  cried  she,  so  earnestly  that  she  blushed 
at  her  own  warmth.  "  I  believe  I  know  the  poems  all  by 
heart." 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  Bell,  "  how  I  envy  you.  I  don't 
believe  I  could  repeat  six  lines  to  save  my  existence.  I  love 
it.  It  is  very  sweet.  But  it  is  like  music.  It  dies  away, 
and  you  know  not  whither  it  is  gone.  It  is  so  much  trouble 
to  commit  to  memory." 

"  I  never  tried  to  commit  it,"  said  Rose.  "  It  stays  in  my 
memory  without  my  knowing  it,  and  comes  back  to  me  when 
I  am  not  seeking  to  recall  it." 

"  Do  you  not  feel  very  lonely  here  ?"  asked  Frank,  irresist- 
ibly curious  to  learn  something  of  the  inmates  of  the  house- 
hold. 

"  Oh,  no !"  she  answered  with  animation.  "  I  have  not 
time  to  be  lonely  during  the  day,  and  father  is  always  at  home 
in  the  evening.  Besides,  there  is  an  old  woman  in  the  kitchen 
who  takes  away  the  feeling  of  loneliness." 

"  Your  father  is  a — hem — I  presume — "  cried  Frank,  allow- 
ing his  curiosity  to  get  the  advantage  of  his  politeness.  "Your 
father's  profession  takes  him  much  from  home,  I  suppose." 

"  My  father  is  a  farmer,  sir,"  she  said  simply,  though  a 
smile  perceptibly  curled  her  lips.  "  He  goes  abroad  with  the 
rising,  and  returns  with  the  setting  sun." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  farmer,"  said  Frank,  emphatically.  "  I 
do  believe  they  must  be  the  happiest  men  in  the  world." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  farmer's  daughter,"  said  Bell,  with  a  sigh, 
"  and  lived  in  such  a  snug  little  place  as  this.  It  must  be  so 
nice.  But  come,  brother,  our  mother  will  wonder  what  detains 
us  so  long." 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  09 

Smoothing  back  her  hair,  she  drew  her  cap  towards  her  by 
one  string,  with  a  jerk  that  ruffled  the  long,  sweeping  plumes, 
and,  swinging  it  round  several  times,  gave  it  a  toss  on  her 
head,  and,  in  spite  of  all,  it  set  there  gracefully 'and  becom- 
ingly. Then  flirting  her  riding  dress  over  her  arm,  she  rose, 
and,  leaning  out  of  the  window,  broke  off  a  green  twig  from 
an  acacia  tree,  whose  branches  waved  against  the  house. 

"  What's  the  use  of  all  those  bewitching  airs,  Bell,  when 
there's  no  one  to  admire  but  a  brother  ?"  asked  Frank,  laugh- 
ing. 

Without  noticing  him,  she  turned  to  Rose,  and  thanked  her 
with  smiling  grace  for  her  kindness  and  hospitality,  begged 
permission  to  come  and  see  her  again,  and  left  the  cottage. 

"I  shall  not  forget  the  books,"  said  Frank,  whose  move- 
ments were  more  tardy.  "  There  are  some  poets  wanting  in 
your  collection,  which  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  supply." 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  replied,  with  a  deep  blush,  "  but  I  do 
not  think  I  ought  to  trouble  you.  I  could  not  accept  so  great 
a  favour  from  a  stranger." 

11  Let  me  lend  them  to  you,  then.  You  are  not  too  proud 
to  accept  so  trifling  an  obligation.  You  call  me  a  stranger, 
and  that  reminds  me  that  we  have  not  introduced  ourselves 
to  you — a  most  unpardonable  omission.  Your  humble  ser- 
vant is  ycleped  Frank  Raymond — my  sister,  Bell  Raymond — 
names,  I  trust,  you  will  not  altogether  forget." 

"  My  name  is  Rose  Mayfield,"  she  replied,  with  simplicity, 
believing  him  entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact,  and  aware  that 
politeness  required  of  her  a  reciprocal  frankness. 

"  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  no  other,"  ejaculated  Frank. 
"  It  is  in  vain  to  say  the  Rose  by  any  other  name  would  smell 
as  sweet." 

"  Frank,  Frank,  you  loiterer,  come  along,"  exclaimed  the 
gay  voice  of  Bell,  who  had  mounted  her  horse  and  rode  directly 
under  the  window.  As  she  bent  her  head  and  peeped  through 
the  acacia  leaves,  which  mingled  with  her  plumes  and  her 
light-brown  curls,  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  mischief  and 
mirth,  she  made  a  charming  picture,  on  which  Rose  gazed 
with  delighted  admiration.  Never  had  so  fair  a  vision  gilded 
their  humble  cottage.  Seldom  does  one  so  fair  adorn  the  halls 
of  wealth  and  fashion.  Frank  watched  the  countenance  of 
Rose.  No  shade  of  envy  darkened  its  sunshine.  Its  expres- 
sion was  even  rapturous,  and  yet  that  rapture  was  inspired  by 


70 

the  beauty  and  elegance  of  another,  enhanced  by  all  the 
advantages  of  dress  and  embellishment  denied  to  herself. 

Again  Bell  repeated  her  summons,  and  Frank  was  compelled 
to  make  his  parting  bow,  and  though  it  was  one  of  lowly  defer- 
ence, there  was  no  mockery  in  it,  as  in  his  fashionable  greeting 
salutation. 

Bell  was  in  high  spirits.  Eested  from  her  fatigue,  refreshed 
by  the  pure  draughts  from  the  fountain,  and  delighted  with 
her  new  acquaintance,  she  rallied  Frank  without  mercy  on  the 
evident  impression  which  the  young  cottager  had  made  on  his 
imagination,  if  not  his  heart.  But  when,  after  their  return 
home,  and  in  the  presence  of  their  high-bred  and  aristocratic 
mother,  she  continued  her  railleries,  he  did  not  bear  them  with 
so  good  a  grace.  Mrs.  Raymond  never  moved  beyond  the 
charmed  circle  of  wealth  and  fashion,  and  the  idea  of  her 
children  being  interested  in  anything  out  of  their  own  peculiar 
sphere,  was  preposterous  and  degrading.  Frank,  knowing  so 
well  her  views  of  society,  had  warned  Bell,  previous  to  their 
arrival,  not  to  shock  her  prejudices  and  opinions,  but  the  wilful 
girl  disregarded  his  injunctions,  and  amused  herself  by  alarming 
her  mother's  pride — 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  much  Frank  admired  her,  mother," 
continued  Bell.  "  He  lingered  on  the  threshold  long  after  I 
was  mounted  for  flight,  making  the  prettiest  speeches  imagin- 
able  " 

"  Frank  Raymond  making  fine  speeches  to  a  coarse,  vulgar, 
country  girl,  must  have  been  a  novel  spectacle,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Raymond,  in  a  tone  of  derision. 

"  Very  coarse  and  vulgar,  indeed,  mother,"  repeated  Frank, 
quietly. 

"Why,  Frank,  it  is  ho  such  thing,"  interrupted  Bell;  "on 
the  contrary,  she  is  quite  refined  and  lady-like,  and  knows 
more  poetry  by  heart  than  I  have  ever  read.  Her  hands  are 
as  small  as  mine,  and  almost  as  white." 

Bell  held  out  a  pair  of  the  fairest  hands  in  the  world,  all 
sparkling  with  rings. 

"  She  had  probably  been  rubbing  them  with  flour,"  said 
Frank,  gravely.  ^  "Were they  not  as  hard  as  boards?" 

"Oh,  no;  quite  soft  and  yielding.  You  know  she  said 
there  was  an  old  woman  in  the  kitchen  who  does  all  the  work 
for  the  family — I  suppose  while  she  reads  poetry  and  culti- 
vates flowers.  I  wish  I  could  change  places  with  her  a  little 
while.  She  looked  so  nice  and  happy." 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  71 

"Isabel — Bell,"  cried  Mrs.  Kaymond,  reproachfully,  "how 
ungrateful  in  you  to  breathe  such  a  wish,  when  you  never 
knew  a  desire  that  was  not  gratified ;  when  you  have  been  the 
most  indulged,  caressed,  and  petted  of  human  beings  !" 

"  That  is  the  very  reason,  my  own  dear,  indulgent  mother, 
that  I  am  dissatisfied.  If  you  would  only  deny  me  something 
that  I  want,  throw  some  obstacles  in  the  way  of  my  wishes, 
excite  me  by  "opposition,  it  seems  to  me  I  should  be  a  great 
deal  happier.  Everything  is  so  smooth  and  monotonous,  it  is 
impossible  to  keep  off  the  demon  of  ennui." 

"  Well,  Bell,  I  will  try  to  gratify  you  in  one  respect — by 
forbidding  you  ever  to  visit  that  cottage  again,  or  to  renew 
your  familiarity  with  one  so  much  beneath  you." 

"  But  I  told  her  I  would  call  again,"  said  Bell,  with  ani- 
mation ;  <^and  Frank  promised  to  lend  her  some  books." 

"  Frank  will  do  no  such  thing,"  cried  his  mother,  haughtily. 
"  If  he  forgets  himself  so  far  as  to  think  of  cultivating  an  in- 
timacy so  degrading,  I  shall  exercise  my  maternal  authority, 
and  treat  him  as  a  boy  in  years,  as  he  seems  to  be  in  action." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  boy,  mother,"  cried  Frank,  gayly,  but 
decidedly;  "  and  I  think  it  hard  if  a  young  man  of  three-and- 
twenty  cannot  be  civil  to  a  discreet,  well-spoken  damsel,  with- 
out being  scolded,  and  threatened  with  the  rod  of  correction." 

"  You  need  not  always  be  telling  your  age,  Frank,"  said 
the  still  young-looking  and  handsome  Mrs.  Ilaymond. 

"  Please  don't  call  me  a  boy  then,  mother." 

Bell  was  roused  to  full  energy  by  her  mother's  unexpected 
prohibition. 

"  You  treat  me  like  a  child  five  years  old,"  said  she,  pet- 
tishly. "  I  suppose  if  I  am  riding  and  literally  dying  of  thirst, 
I  must  not  stop  to  quench  it,  and  I  must  repay  hospitality 
with  rudeness,  and  politeness  with  ill-breeding.''1 

"  You  know  my  meaning,  Bell ;  why  do  you  pervert  it  so  t" 

"  I  do  not  like  to  be  treated  like  a  baby." 

"  Did  not  you  ask  me  to  deny  you  something  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Bell,  laughing  at  her  own  waywardness ; 
"  but  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  with  compliance." 

Bell  retired  to  her  chamber,  to  prepare  for  an  evening 
.party,  which  she  had  engaged  to  attend.  She  said  she  did 
not  wish  to  go ;  that  she  would  not  go ;  yet  she  bade  her  wait- 
ing-maid open  her  wardrobe,  and  take  out;  one  by  one,  her 
beautiful  fancy  dresses,  for  inspection. 


72  BELL   AND   ROSE. 

"  Not  that  pink  gauze.  I  have  been  riding  in  the  sun,  and 
look  too  red  for  that." 

"  Oh !  you  have  such  a  lovely  complexion  to-night,"  said 
Anna,  the  young  waiting-maid. 
*  "  Let  me  see  the  blue,  trimmed  with  silver." 

"  This  makes  you  look  so  fair,"  cried  the  girl,  holding  up 
the  glittering  tissue  in  the  glancing  light. 

"  Put  it  away;  it  'is  too  gaudy ;  only  fit  for  an  actress.  I 
wish  I  had  but  one  plain,  domestic  dress,  and  I  would  know 
what  to  wear.  I  do  think  this  dressing  is  the  most  tedious, 
annoying  business  in  the  world.  Bring  me  that  white  gos- 
samer over  satin — I  will  wear  nothing  but  white  to-night — no 
jewels.  Go  into  the  green-house  and  gather  some  white  rose- 
buds and  geranium  leaves.  I  will  wear  no  other  ornaments." 

Bell  had  a  sudden  fit  of  simplicity,  and  tried  to  look  like  a 
simple  cottage-maid,  in  her  white  robes  and  natural  flowers ; 
and  she  did  look  surpassingly  lovely ;  she  was  told  so  at  least 
a  hundred  times  in  the  course  of  the  evening ;  but,  praises  of 
her  beauty  were  so  common,  she  heeded  them  not.  Her  in- 
terest was  excited  by  the  appearance  of  a  stranger,  who,  unlike 
most  strangers,  did  not  seek  an  immediate  introduction  to 
herself,  the  reigning  belle  of  the  season.  He  stood  aloof  from 
the  crowd  which  surrounded  her,  a  man  of  noble  person,  and 
dark  and  striking  countenance. 

When  she  first  saw  him,  he  was  standing  by  a  table  looking 
at  some  engravings,  which  he  appeared  to  be  explaining  to  a 
lady,  who  listened  with  delighted  attention.  He  did  not  look 
very  young,  yet  no  one  would  think  of  calling  him  old.  He 
was  certainly  the  most  elegant-looking  gentleman  in  the  room  ; 
and,  as  time  glided  on,  and  he  did  not  approach  her  to  pay 
her  the  customary  tribute  of  homage  and  admiration,  she  felt 
mortified  and  disappointed — she  was  sure  he  was  a  distin- 
guished personage.  He  had  such  an  air  of  dignity  and  high- 
breeding,  and  every,  one  paid  him  so  much  deference,  and 
seemed  so  much  flattered  by  his  notice.  She  would  not  ask 
his  name,  for  she  did  not  like  to  have  it  supposed  she  was 
ignorant  of  it,  but,  when  her  brother  came  near,  she  eluded 
her  admirers  for  a  few  moments,  and  begged  of  him  to  satisfy 
her  curiosity. 

"  Why,  that  is  Mr.  Urvin,  just  returned  from  a  five  years' 
sojourn  in  Europe,  Asia*and  Africa,  for  what  I  know.  They 
call  him  the  distinguished  traveller,  and  he  really  is  a  fine- 
looking  man,  with  very  elegant  and  dignified  manners." 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  73 

"  I  do  not  see  why  he  should  assume  such  airs,  if  he  has 
travelled,"  said  Bell,  in  a  tone  of  pique. 

"  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Frank,  laughing;  "  he  has  not 
paid  tribute  to  her  royal  Majesty,  the  queen  of  the  evening. 
Do  not  be  angry,  but  I  overheard  our  hostess  offer  to  introduce 
him  to  you.  '  Thank  you,  madam/  said  he,  with  a  sarcastic 
smile,  l  but  I  always  shun  a  belle.'  " 

"  Arrogant !"  exclaimed  Bell,  her  cheek  flushing  brightly 
as  she  spoke.  "  I  am  sure  I  do  not  ask  or  wish  his  notice. 
He  shall  rue  the  day  he  ever  made  that  speech,"  she  added 
to  herself. 

"  Our  little  Rose  would  suit  him,"  whispered  Frank.  "  Sho 
certainly  is  prettier  than  any  of  the  damsels  here,  making  the 
usual  exception — and  then  she  has  so  much  heart  and  soul 
in  her  face." 

Bell  scarcely  heard  what  he  said  of  Rose  ]  her  mind  was 
dwelling  on  the  remark  of  the  elegant  traveller,  whose  avoid- 
ance had  made  the  attentions  of  all  others  irksome  and  dis- 
tasteful. Taking  the  arm  of  her  brother,  she  walked  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  too  much  excited  to  remain  in  one 
position. 

"  There  he  comes,"  said  Frank,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  but,  pray, 
don't  look  so  scornful.  Let  him  see  how  sweet  and  amiable  a 
belle  can  appear." 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  scornful  lip  had  not  time  to 
smooth  itself  into  a  smile  before  they  passed  him,  and  Bell 
could  not  help  giving  her  ringlets  a  toss  that  discomposed  her 
white  rose-buds,  and  brought  them  down,  in  a  fragrant  shower, 
at  his  feet.  Stooping  down,  he  gathered  them  up,  and  pre- 
sented them  to  her  with  a  respectful  bow.  He  did  not  retain 
so  much  as  a  geranium  leaf,  but  handed  them  to  her  with  as 
little  sentiment  as  if  it  were  a  bonnet  she  had  dropped,  instead 
of  flowers.  As  Bell  took  them  from  his  hand,  she  looked  up 
and  met  his  eyes.  Never  had  she  seen  anything  so  dark,  so 
piercing,  so  brilliant,  yet  so  awe-inspiring,  as  that  single  glance. 
With  a  deeper  blush  than  had  ever  before  dyed  her  cheek,  she 
slightly  bowed  and  passed  on.  She  had  prepared  a  look  of 
great  indifference,  bordering  on  contempt,  but  she  forgot  to 
put  it  on,  and  it  was  well  that  she  did,  for  it  certain!  j- 
not  have  increased  Mr.  Urviu's  admiration  of  leUes. 


122 


74  BELL  AND   ROSE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does- 
Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes — 
Pure-bosomed  as  the  watery  glass, 
And  Heaven  reflected  in  her  face."— COWPER. 

"  I'm  weary  of  the  brilliant  hall, 
"Where  fashion's  votaries  throng — 
I'm  weary  of  my  own  vain  heart, 
Slave  of  the  world  too  long."— ANON. 

ROSE  MAYFIELD  stood  at  the  door  of  her  father's  cottage, 
watching  the  setting  sun.  It  was  the  hour  she  loved,  for  she 
knew  her  father's  steps  were  then  bending  homeward.  Every- 
thing was  prepared  for  his  reception — the  little  table,  covered 
with  the  whitest  and  smoothest  cloth,  was  spread  in  a  back 
porch;  old  Hannah  was  milking  the  cow  in  the  barn-yard, 
while  the  odour  of  warm  bread  and  steaming  meat  issued  from, 
the  kitchen.  Rose  stood,  looking  toward  the  corn-field  waving 
beyond,  but  her  eye  was  abstracted,  and  it  was  evident  that 
her  thoughts  were  gone  out  on  a  more  distant  excursion.  She 
was  thinking  of  the  fair  equestrian  and  her  gallant  brother, 
for  their  visit  was  an  event  in  her  quiet  and  sequestered  life. 
It  recalled  the  associations  of  her  earlier  years,  and  a  quick, 
low  sigh  heaved  her  bosom.  For  Rose,  though  a  hard-work- 
ing farmer's  daughter,  had  passed  but  a  comparatively  small 
portion  of  her  life  in  her  present  humble  home.  A  brief  re- 
view of  her  childhood  will  explain  the  apparent  inconsistency 
of  her  education  and  position.  When  she  was  a  little  child 
she  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  mother.  Just  about  the 
time  when  the  heart-stricken,  widowed  father,  was  mourning 
over  his  own  bereavement,  and  the  helplessness  of  his  orphan 
daughter,  a  lady  was  thrown  from  her  carriage,  almost  oppo- 
site the  cabin,  and  brought  in  for  shelter  and  relief.  It  was 
weeks  before  she  was  able  to  be  removed.  In  the  mean  time 
the  engaging  little  Rose  twined  herself  round  her  childless 
heart,  and  she  entreated  the  father  to  allow  her  to  take  the 
child  home  with  her,  and  cherish  and  educate  her  as  her  own. 
It  was  not  without  many  a  hard  struggle  that  Mr.  Mayfield 
conquered  his  reluctance  to  give  up  his  darling,  but  he  be- 


BELL  AND  ROSE.  <5 

licved  that  Providence  had  raised  up  this  friend  to  her  mother- 
less childhood,  and,  with  mingled  gratitude  and  grief,  he 
suffered  her  to  depart. 

Mrs.  Chandler  resided  in  a  city  remote  from  his  little  farm, 
and  opportunities  of  intercourse  were  few  and  far  between. 
In  the  home  of  her  benefactress  and  adopted  mother,  she  re- 
ceived those  advantages  of  education  which  her  father  could 
never  have  imparted.  Mrs.  Chandler  was  no  worldly,  fashion- 
able woman;  she  was  a  simple-hearted,  high-minded  Christian, 
whose  influence  was  as  pure,  as  benign,  and  as  .diffusive  as 
sunshine.  The  emanations  of  her  mind  and  heart  were  radi- 
ated into  the  mind  and  heart  of  Rose,  and  beautiful  mental  and 
moral  flowers  grew  and  blossomed,  as  the  result.  Sometimes 
Mrs.  Chandler  had  a  coadjutor,  who  took  a  great  interest  in 
directing  the  studies  of  his  sister's  protege,  and  whose  influence 
was  almost  as  powerful  as  her  own — a  younger  brother — a 
man  of  remarkable  depth  and  reach  of  mind,  as  well  as  be- 
nevolence of  feeling.  The  extreme  simplicity,  humility,  and 
gratitude  of  the  young  girl  pleased  him,  united,  as  they  evi- 
dently were,  with  brilliancy  of  imagination  and  vigour  of  intel- 
lect. Hose  looked  up  to  him  with  admiration  and  reverence; 
and  when  he  departed  for  a  foreign  land,  with  the  prospect  of 
being  absent  for  years,  she  felt  as  if  a  pillar  of  strength,  on 
which  she  had  been  leaning,  as  an  anchor  to  her  weakness  and 
youth,  were  suddenly  removed.  But  a  far  greater  misfortune 
was  impending  over  her.  Her  friend  and  benefactress  was 
taken  from  her,  and  the  last  moments  of  this  noble  and  excel- 
lent woman  were  embittered  by  the  recently-acquired  know- 
ledge that  the  property  which  she  had  intended  to  bequeath 
to  her  adopted  daughter,  was  no  longer  hers  to  bestow.  The 
man  who  had  the  charge  of  her  business  during  her  brother's 
absence,  proved  to  be  a  villain,  who  absconded  with  the  for: 
tune  which  she  believed  secure  from  treachery  or  loss.  Hose 
had  never  thought  of  being  the  heiress  of  her  friend's  wealth, 
and,  had  she  been  left  the  inheritance  of  millions,  it  would 
not  have  softened  the  blow  that  crushed  her  to  the  dust.  She 
was  just  fifteen  when  she  returned  to  her  own  humble  dwell- 
ing, and  the  father  who  welcomed  her  as  an  angel  of  light. 
To  say  that  Rose  did  not  feel  the  change,  that  she  did  not  sigh 
for  the  refined  and  cultivated  society  which  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  meet  at  Mrs.  Chandler's,  that  she  did  not  shrink 
from  the  homely  duties  that  devolved  upon  her,  would  be 
false ;  but  she  struggled  bravely,  heroically,  with  her  repinings, 


76  BELL  AND   ROSE. 

and  tried  to  come  down  gracefully  and  meetly  to  the  lowly 
realities  of  her  condition.  Then  it  was  so  ungrateful  in  her 
to  murmur.  There  was  old  Hannah  in  the  kitchen,  to  do  all 
the  drudgery  of  the  house-work ;  she  had  time  to  read  and 
cultivate  all  her  acquired  tastes ;  then  her  father  was  so  good, 
BO  kind  and  indulgent,  and  loved  her  with  such  unmeasured 
idolatry,  how  could  she  help  being  happy  ? 

Mrs.  Chandler  had  always  dressed  her  with  elegant  simpli- 
city, and  she  had  returned  with  an  ample  wardrobe  of  her  own, 
as  well  as  the  gift  of  her  benefactress ;  but,  with  a  good  sense 
and  propriety  remarkable  in  one  so  young,  she  felt  that  such 
dresses  were  inappropriate  to  the  home  she  now  inhabited;  so 
she  made  herself  garments  of  plain  domestic ;  and,  when  her 
father  came  in  from  his  daily  labour,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  soiled 
perchance,  and  moist  with  the  dew  of  toil,  she  did  not  shrink 
from  his  embracing  arms,  nor  fear  that  her  dress  would  be 
spoiled  by  the  contact. 

She  often  thought  of  the  brother  of  her  benefactress,  won- 
dered if  he  had  returned  to  his  native  land,  and  whether  he 
retained  any  recollection  of  the  little  girl  he  had  so  kindly 
instructed  and  so  wisely  counselled.  But,  as  nearly  three 
years  had  passed  away,  she  gave  up  the  hope  of  beholding 
him  again,  and  feared  he  had  found  a  grave  in  a  foreign  land. 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  beautiful 
Bell  and  her  brother  should  have  ruffled  the  calm  and  uniform 
surface  of  her  existence,  or  that  the  sparkling  draught  of  social 
enjoyment,  of  which  she  had  just  tasted,  should  have  awakened 
a  tliirst  the  pure  waters  of  her  own  fountain  could  not  quench. 

The  moment  she  saw  her  father  she  ran  to  meet  him,  took 
his  straw  hat  from  his  hand,  and  sportively  fanned  his  sun- 
browned  face.  The  smile  of  grateful  and  admiring  fondness 
with  which  the  weary  farmer  greeted  her,  touched  her  with 
remorse  for  the  vague  repinings  she  was  conscious  of  feeling  a 
moment  before. 

"  Oh  !  dear  father,"  thought  she,  "  let  me  think  more  of 
your  comfort  than  of  strangers  I  may  never  meet  again." 

If  Frank  had  thought  Rose  pretty  and  graceful,  under  the 
cloud  of  embarrassment  and  constraint  that  obscured,  in  some 
measure,  her  natural  attractions,  how  much  more  he  would 
have  admired  her,  as  she  flitted  round  her  father,  anticipating 
his  wants  and  soothing  him  with  her  gentle  caresses  !  He 
had  compared  her  to  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  certainly  she 
resembled  Ellen  in  her  devotion  to  her  father  and  the  grace 


•     <        BELL  AND   ROSE.  77 

and  tenderness  of  her  filial  attentions.  While  partaking  of 
their  supper,  Hose  told  him  of  her  visiters,  and  described, 
with  animation,  the  beauty  of  Isabel,  though  she  smiled  at 
her  affectation  and  caprice.  The  farmer  looked  gr;ive  when 
she  told  him  of  Frank's  offer  of  books,  which  implied  an  in- 
tention of  renewing  his  visit.  He  wanted  his  Rose  to  be  seen 
and  admired,  yet  he  was  anxious  and  troubled  lest  admiration 
should  flow  from  a  doubtful  source.  He  could  not  bear  to 
damp  the  pleasure  with  which  she  evidently  dwelt  on  this 
incident,  and  he  knew  the  modesty  and  simplicity  of  her 
ciiaracter  too  well  to  fear  of  her  being  lured  by  mere  fashionable 
graces.  It  was  for  her  happiness  he  trembled,  and  yet  how 
could  he  think  of  immuring  her  in  perfect  solitude,  and  suffer- 
ing her  blooming  youth  to  pass  away,  like  the  flower  of  the 
oasis,  unseen  and  unappreciated?  After  the  first  feeling  of 
alarm  had  subsided,  a  pure  and  honest  pride  in  her  beauty 
and  refiuemeut  lighted  up  his  countenance.  Perhaps  the  young 
man  was  of  that  noble,  honourable  class,  to  which  her  bene- 
factress had  belonged;  and,  through  him,  Rose  might  be  re- 
stored to  the  sphere  she  was  born  and  educated  to  adorn. 
While  these  thjughts  swelled  his  bosom,  he  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  looked  earnestly  at  Rose,  then  round  the  little 
stoup,  beneath  which  they  were  seated,  shook  his  head,  took 
up  his  knife  and  fork,  and  said,  almost  unconsciously — 

"  Who  knows  ?     Who  knows ?" 

"  Who  knows  what,  father  ?" 

"  But  what  these  young  folks  may  prove  very  good  friends 
to  you,  after  all  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Rose ;  "  and  yet  I  had  better  not  in- 
dulge in  hopes  that  may  end  in  disappointment.  It  is  more 
likely  that  they  may  never  think  of  me  again,  and  it  is  better 
that  I  banish  them  from  my  thoughts." 

This  was  more  easily  said  than  done ;  but  there  is  power  in 
action,  and  Rose  was  superfluously  industrious  after  the  supper 
was  over.  She  swept  the  floor  after  Hannah,  though  not  a 
particle  of  dust  was  left  upon  it,  and  wiped  over  the  cups  and 
saucers  with  a  dry  napkin,  though  Hannah  had  made  them 
shine  with  all  the  lustre  of  neatness. 

"  Are  you  never  going  to  be  ready  to  sit  down  to  reading  ?" 
said  the  farmer.  "  What  a  bustling  little  body  you  are  to- 
night !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  ready  now.  But  let  me  brush  your  ha;r 
first,  and  smooth  this  rumpled  shirt-collar.  You  know  I've 


78  BELL   AND   ROSE. 

no  one  to  look  at  but  you,  and  I  love  dearly  to  see  you  looking 
nice  and  comfortable.  Now,  take  this  old  arm-chair,  and  tell 
me  what  I  shall  read.  Suppose  I  soothe  you  with  a  little 
poetry  to-night." 

She  took  down  the  volume  which  she  had  seen  in  the  hands 
of  Frank,  and  began  to  flutter  the  leaves. 

"I  had  rather  listen  to  some  of  good  old  Plutarch's  Lives. 
They  mean  something,  and  give  a  body  something  to  think 
about  afterwards.  But,  as  for  poetry,  it  comes  in  at  one  ear 
and  goes  out  of  the  other.  Never  mind,  please  yourself,  my 
darling;  your  voice  will  make  anything  pleasant." 

Rose  immediately  exchanged  the  books,  and  cheerfully  com- 
menced what  she  had  read  at  least  a  dozen  times.  Mr.  Mayfield 
Bat  opposite  his  daughter,  in  the  old  arm-chair,  with  his  hair  as 
sleek  and  shining  as  comb  and  brush  could  mnke  it,  and  his 
white  shirt  collar,  relieving  the  hardy  brown  of  his  complexion. 
Pie  sat  gazing  on  his  young  daughter,  whose  fair  brow  was  in- 
clined over  the  book,  while  her  rosy  cheek  rested  in  the 
hollow  of  her  right  hand.  Her  attitude  was  graceful,  her  face 
surpassingly  sweet,  and  her  voice  was  music  itself.  He  gazed 
upon  her  with  a  fondness  so  intense  that  it  deepened  into  sad- 
ness. She  came  out  in  such  bright  and  beautiful  relief,  in 
that  dark  cabin,  her  accents  glided  so  gently  into  his  ear  and 
sunk  down  so  meltingly  in  his  heart,  that  his  eyes  closed  from 
excess  of  delight,  and  his  ear  grew  heavy  with  its  weight  of 
melody.  What  a  luxury  for  the  toil-worn  and  weary  man  to 
leave  behind  him  the  labour  and  dust  and  burden  of  his  day  of 
care,  and  in  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  his  own  home  to  recline 
at  ease,  and  look  at  and  listen  to  such  a  daughter  !  It  is  no 
wonder  such  a  state  of  luxurious  content  should  compose  the 
feeling  for  a  deeper  calm. 

Ruse  was  reading  the  history  of  Pastus  and  the  devoted 
Arria.  Her  eye  kindled  and  her  cheek  glowed  over  the  record 
of  her  self-sacrificing  and  matchless  love. 

"  Oh !  father,"  said  she,  looking  up  and  suffering  the  book 
to  drop  upon  her  lap,  "  I  never,  never  can  be  tired  of  this.  It 
is  sad,  but  it  awakens  such  exalted  sentiments.  I  remember 
a  beautiful  little  poem,  written  on  this  subject.  I  think  it 
began  thus : 

When  Arria  to  her  husband  gave  the  sword, 
Which  from  her  chaste  and  bleeding  breast  she  drew, 
"  Take  this,"  she  cried—"  My  Paetus,  do  not  fear 
Sweet  is  the  wouiid  that  has  been  given  for  you." 


BELL   AND   ROSE.  79 

A  sudden,  loud,  nasal  sound  arrested  the  poetical  reminis- 
cences of  Rose.  The  poor,  tired  farmer  was  soothed  into  a 
deep  sleep,  and  as  his  head  was  leaning  backward,  he  was  in- 
dulging in  a  most  anti-heroic  snore.  The  enthusiasm  of  Rose 
gave  a  quick,  painful  rebound  to  her  own  bosom.  She  had 
often  experienced  a  similar  shock,  but  never  had  she  felt  it  so 
acutely.  It  jarred  on  every  nerve ;  she  could  not  help  con- 
trasting the  discordant  notes  with  the  music  of  Bell's  gny 
laugh — the  accents  of  the  graceful  and  gallant  Frank.  She 
felt  more  intensely  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  the  want 
of  sympathy,  the  want  of  congenial  youth  and  refinement,  and 
despised  herself  for  experiencing  it.  She  would  not  have 
wakened  her  father  for  the  world,  but  she  went  softly  behind 
him  and  insinuated  a  pillow  between  his  head  and  the  chair, 
thereby  closing  the  open  gates  from  which  the  sonorous 
breathings  came  forth. 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  the  life  of  the  young  Rose ;  one 
evening  was  the  epitome  of  the  next,  and  the  next.  How 
diferent  was  the  lot  of  the  brilliant  and  capricious  Bell !  And 
yet  Rose  was  the  happier  of  the  two  ;  she  had  a  self-sustaining 
principle  within ;  she  looked  to  God  above,  and  then  into  her 
own  pure  heart,  to  see  His  image  there. 

The  paths  of  these  two  young  maidens  widely  diverged,  and 
yet,  as  they  may  perchance  approach  more  closely,  we  must 
follow,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  in  their  different  orbits. 

Bell  had  now  a  new  object  of  interest,  that  roused  her  from 
the  ennui  that  so  often  oppressed.  It  was  singular,  but  her 
admiration  of  Mr.  Urvin  was  not  diminished  by  his  expressed 
reluctance  to  her  society.  It  was  rather  increased.  There 
were  many  moments  when  she  despised  herself  for  being  a 
belle,  as  much  as  she  did  the  insipid  beings  who  fed  her  vanity 
with  the  fuel  of  adulation — when  she  felt  more  than  willing  to 
barter  the  incense  of  the  multitude,  for  the  sincere  but  silent 
homage  of  one  true  and  noble  heart.  She  wanted  something 
to  look  up  to  and  reverence — something  to  stir  the  unsounded 
depths  within.  She  could  not  reverence  her  mother,  for  she 
had  no  qualities  to  inspire  veneration — she  was  "  of  the  earth, 
earthy."  Frank  was  too  near  her  own  age,  too  gay  and  mis- 
chievous, too  much  on  her  own  level.  She  could  not  look  up 
to  him.  But  Mr.  Urvin !  how  high  he  seemed  to  tower 
above  all  surrounding  objects !  So  lofty,  so  dignified,  with 
eyes  so  darkly  eloquent,  and  mien  so  cold,  yet  so  strangely 
attractive  !  She  had  now  but  one  thought,  one  wish — to  over 


80  BELL   AND   ROSE. 

come  his  prejudices,  to  conquer  his  proud  reluctance,  and  to 
triumph  at  last  in  the  possession  of  his  admiration. 

'Mrs.  Raymond  had  an  almost  insane  desire  to  cultivate  the 
acquaintance  of  foreigners  and  travellers  of  distinction.  She 
had  seen,  with  pique  and  resentment,  Mr.  Urvin's  avoidance 
of  her  daughter,  but  he  was  too  distinguished  to  be  given  up 
without  an  effort.  His  reputation  for  wealth  and  talents 
threw  a  dazzling  prestige  round  him,  more  hallowed  in  her 
aristocratic  eyes  than  the  halo  that  encircles  with  golden  glory 
the  brows  of  saints  and  martyrs.  She  gave  a  splendid  party, 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  inviting  him,  and  urged  Bell  to  appear 
as  simple  as  possible,  in  dress  and  manner.  But  Bell,  with  a 
strange  caprice,  or  perhaps  from  the  fear  of  having  her  real 
feelings  detected,  would  wear  her  most  glittering  attire,  and 
instead  of  flowers,  wreathed  her  brow  with  costly  gems. 
She  would  not  have  Mr.  Urvin  suppose  that  she  wished  to 
attract  his  attention,  or  gratify  his  pride  by  subservience  to 
his  tastes.  Of  course,  an  introduction  was  unavoidable.  It 
was  as  a  Idle,  she  was  resolved  to  triumph — as  a  conqueror, 
she  would  bind  him  in  golden  chains  to  her  car  of  victory. 
To  his  grave,  respectful,  yet  most  graceful  salutation,  she  re- 
sponded with  those  bewitching  smiles  which  others  had  pro- 
nounced irresistible.  To  his  intelligent,  manly,  and  interesting 
remarks,  she  replied  at  first  with  some  of  those  airy  nothings, 
which  generally  pass  for  brilliant  wit,  and  had  there  not  been 
something  in  her  clear  blue  eye  that  seemed  to  shame  the  folly 
of  her  lips,  and  had  not  the  roses,  coming  and  going  on  her 
cheeks,  appeared  to  blush  for  her  affectation,  it  is  probable 
Mr.  Urvin  would  have  left  her  side,  with  his  prejudices 
against  belles  deepened,  instead  of  being  subdued.  As  it  was, 
he  felt  amused  and  interested,  for  there  is  a  charm  in  youth 
and  beauty,  after  all,  to  which  the  gravest  philosophers  are 
compelled  to  bow.  She  questioned  him  of  his  travels,  and 
while  listening  to  his  eloquent  description  of  foreign  lands, 
forgot  her  wish  to  shine  and  captivate,  and,  without  knowing 
it,  appeared  as  natural  as  Rose  herself.  The  influence  of  a 
commanding  inind  was  upon  her,  and  a  charm — a  spell  un- 
known before — bound  her  to  the  spot.  She  forgot  to  flirt 
her  ringlets  with  that  little  sportive  motion  which  had  been 
called  so  graceful.  She  forgot  to  pick  off,  with  her  white  and 
sparkling  fingers,  the  green  leaves  of  her  beautiful  bouquet, 
or  to  play  a  thousand  fantastic  tricks  with  her  ivory  fan. 
She  stood  an  entranced  and  eager  listener,  feeling  as  if  the 


BELL   AND  ROSE.  81 

doors  of  her  understanding  were  just  opening,  and  sunbeams 
darting  dazzingly  in.  She  longed  to  ask  him  the  definition 
of  a  belle,  but  she  dared  not  do  it.  She  had  lost  the  assumed 
boldness  with  which  she  commenced  her  attack,  and  it  could 
not  be  recalled. 

Just  before  the  evening  closed,  when  her  spirits  were  as  elas- 
tic as  the  air  she  breathed,  she  was  passing  through  the  folding 
doors,  within  which  Mr.  Urvin  was  then  standing,  conversing 
with  a  group  of  gentlemen.  He  had  his  back  towards  her, 
and  did  not  see  her,  though  her  robes  swept  lightly  against 
him.  He  seemed  engaged  in  earnest  conversation,  and  she 
distinctly  heard  him  utter  the  name  of  Rose  Mayfield.  For  a 
moment  her  footsteps  involuntarily  paused,  then  she  hurried 
on  through  a  side  door,  nor  stopped  till  she  found  herself  in 
the  garden,  in  whose  shaded  walks  she  was  sure  of  escaping 
observation.  It  was  astonishing  what  an  electric  spark  the 
mere  pronunciation  of  that  name  had  given  her.  What  pos- 
sible association  could  there  be  with  this  proud,  stately,  and 
wealthy  gentleman,  moving  in  the  very  highest  walks  of  society, 
and  the  poor  and  humble  Rose  ?  He  had  probably  seen  her  acci- 
dentally, as  she  had  done,  and  admired  the  simplicity  of  her 
character  and  the  unadorned  graces  of  her  person.  Had  not 
Frank  said  she  was  just  the  person  to  charm  him  ?  Was  she 
cot  the  very  opposite  to  that  object  of  his  abhorrence,  a  belle  f 
In  an  instant  she  arrived  at  the  most  surprising  conclusions. 
He  was  the  betrothed  lover  of  Rose — those  books  were  his 
gift — he  would  raise  her  to  rank  and  affluence,  and  they  would 
meet  in  the  social  circle,  and  even  her  mother  would  be  con- 
strained to  tolerate  her  as  the  bride  of  the  admired  Mr.  Urvin. 

It  was  the  most  unfortunate  thing  in  the  world  that  she  had 
ever  heard  that  name,  sweet  and  simple  as  it  was,  for  it  acted 
like  an  evil  spell,  and  banished  all  her  enjoyment.  She  tried 
to  conceal  her  feelings,  but  when  she  returned  to  her  guests, 
her  cheek  was  paler,  and  her  manner  devoid  of  animation. 

"  Bell,  my  love,"  said  her  mother,  "  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Are  you  fatigued  ?  Do  try  to  rally  a  little.  I  see  Mr.  Urvin 
coming  this  way.  Every  one  is  speaking  of  the  impression 
you  have  made  on  him.  It  is  such  a  triumph,  Bell.  I'm  sure 
I  wonder  you  do  not  exult  at  your  success.  There,  I  am  glad 
to  see  the  colour  coming  back  to  your  cheeks." 

"  I  am  tired,  mother — tired  to  death,"  said  Bell,  pettishly. 
"  I  do  wish  every  one  would  go — and  as  for  Mr.  Urvin,  I 


82  BELL   AND   ROSE. 

don't  see  what  there  is  in  him  to  make  such  a  fuss  about.  I 
really  think  him  a  decided  bore." 

"  Bell !"  cried  her  mother,  in  a  low  voice,  for  she  was 
fearful  of  being  overheard,  "you  are  the  strangest  girl  I  ever 
knew.  You  are  never  in  the  same  mood  three  minutes  in  suc- 
cession. You  are  the  most  capricious  and  spoiled  of  human 
beings." 

"I  know  that,  better  than  any  one  else,  mother."  The 
conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  Mr.  Urvin, 
who  came  to  make  his  parting  bow. 

"  Oh  !  that  I  dared  to  ask  him  what  he  knew  of  Rose  May- 
field  !"  thought  Bell.  "  Yet,  that  he  knows  her  at  all,  is  suf- 
ficient to  prove  all  my  fears." 

Fears !  why  should  she  fear  the  influence  of  Rose  on  this 
man,  so  lately  a  stranger  ?  What  was  he  to  her,  what  could 
he  ever  be,  even  if  the  farmer's  daughter  were  blotted  from 
the  scroll  of  existence  ?  Again  and  again  she  asked  herself 
this  question,  when,  after  the  dispersion  of  the  company,  she 
sought  her  chamber,  and  threw  herself  wearily  on  the  bed. 

"  Oh  !  you  will  spoil  your  beautiful  dress  !"  exclaimed 
Anna,  in  most  distressed  accents. 

"I  don't  care,"  replied  her  young  mistress.  "I  never 
will  wear  it  again.  I  detest  all  this  finery,  jewels  and  all. 
Take  off  the  dress  and  keep  it,  and  never  let  me  see  it  again." 

"  It  is  too  fine  for  me,"  cried  the  delighted  girl.  "  I  could 
not  think  of  robbing  you  of  it.  But  how  shall  I  take  it  off, 
while  you  are  lying  down  ?" 

"  Wait,  then,  till  I  am  ready,"  said  Bell,  without  thinking 
of  the  poor,  tired  waiting-maid,  who  could  scarcely  keep  her 
weary  eyelids  from  falling  together.  She  did  not  mean  to  be 
unkind,  but  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  own  new  and  be- 
wildering thoughts,  she  forgot  even  her  presence  as  soon  as 
she  ceased  speaking.  She  lay  for  a  long  time — a  strange  and 
radiant  figure  to  be  reclining  there — when  the  girl,  overcome 
by  fatigue,  sunk  down  upon  the  floor  and  bent  her  head  upon 
the  bed-cover.  Roused  from  her  abstraction  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  motion,  Bell's  heart  smote  her  for  her  thoughtless- 
ness and  selfishness.  She  rose  and  suffered  herself  to  be  un- 
dressed^  thinking  how  much  less  trouble  Rose  Mayfield'a 
simple  toilet  must  be  than  hers,  with  all  its  splendid  deco- 
rations !  Ah  !  how  little  did  Rose  dream  of  being  an  object 
of  envy  to  the  vain  and  beautiful  Bell ! 


BELL   AND   ROSE.  83 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 
And  every  day  have  joys  divine, 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballodomyle." — BURNS. 

"If  happiness  have  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 

But  never  can  be  blest. 
Nae  treasures,  nae  pleasures, 

Could  make  us  happy  long — 
The  heart  aye's  the  part  aye, 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrong." — IBID. 

Is  it  supposed  that  Frank  submitted  to  maternal  authority, 
and  never  more  returned  to  the  cottage,  where  the  silver  foun- 
tain gushed  ?  If  it  is,  it  is  a  great  mistake.  He  had  made  a 
promise  to  Rose,  which  he  felt  bound,  as  a  man  of  honour, 
not  to  violate.  So,  with  an  elegant  pocket  edition  of  Shaks- 
peare,  which  he  had  employed  at  least  a  day  in  marking,  he 
started  for  the  farmer's  cabin  without  warning  even  Bell  of 
his  design.  As  he  rode  up  to  the  door,  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  bright  face  of  Hose  through  the  light,  drooping  leaves 
of  the  acacia,  and  the  tree  seemed  in  rosy  bloom.  The  flower 
exhibited  still  deeper  bloom  as  he  entered.  The  spontaneous 
delight  which  Rose  felt  on  finding  that  she  was  not  forgotten, 
illumined  her  whole  face.  Frank  wondered  that  he  had  thought 
her  pretty  before,  she  so  infinitely  transcended  her  former  self. 
Her  dress,  though  still  the  perfection  of  neatness,  was  far  more 
becoming.  Perhaps  Rose  herself  could  hardly  analyze  the 
motive  that  induced  her,  since  the  visit  of  the  brother  and 
sister,  to  pay  more  attention  to  her  toilet,  especially  in  the 
after  part  of  the  day.  She  discovered  that  a  modest  gingham 
frock  was  not  too  fine  for  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  then  her 
father  loved  so  dearly  to  see  her  dressed  with  care  !  The  hue 
of  her  garment  was  blue — Frank's  favourite  colour — and  a  wild 
flower,  dyed  in  sapphire,  was  set  like  a  gem  in  her  dark  brown 
hair. 

Frank  saw  that  he  was  welcome,  and  the  conviction  that  he 
was  so.  removed  the  slight  embarrassment  he  had  felt  on  his 


84  BELL   AND   ROSE. 

entrance.  He  had  dreaded  coldness  and  constraint,  since  he 
came  unaccompanied  by  his  sister;  he  had  prepared  himself 
for  a  refusal  of  his  book ;  he  had  thought  it  possible  she  could 
not  see  him  at  all.  Perhaps  the  farmer  himself  might  make 
his  appearance,  and  tell  him  to  keep  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  his  daughter.  After  dwelling  on  the  possibility,  nay, 
even  the  probability  of  these  things,  it  may  be  imagined  how 
extremely  pleasant  it  was  to  meet  the  bright  smile,  the  kin- 
dling blush,  that  assured  him  of  modest  welcome.  The  volume 
he  brought  was  illustrated,  and  this  gave  him  an  admirable 
excuse  for  sitting  down  by  the  side  of  Rose  to  show  her  the 
engravings.  Then  he  offered  to  read  to  her,  while  she  con- 
tinued her  sewing,  combining,  in  this  way,  the  pleasures  of 
literature  and  industry.  Frank  was  a  magnificent  reader,  and 
none  but  such  should  ever  attempt  the  dramas  of  Shakspeare. 
Rose  had  heard  them  read  before,  by  the  brother  of  Mrs. 
Chandler;  but  his  voice,  like  the  organ,  was  fitted  only  for 
the  sublime  and  majestic  intonations  of  the  darker  passions ; 
it  could  not  play  like  Frank's,  from  the  light  play  of  Mercu- 
tio's  wit,  to  the  impassioned  breathings  of  Romeo's  love — 
then  again  from  the  insidious  malice  of  lago,  to  the  terrific 
ravings  of  Othello's  jealousy.  Rose  listened  with  a  charmed 
ear.  The  work  fell  from  her  hands,  while  her  eye,  fixed  upon 
the  reader,  changed  its  expression  with  every  varying  senti- 
ment. It  is  no  wonder  that  Frank  felt  inspired,  when,  ever 
and  anon,  looking  up  from  his  book,  he  saw  such  eyes  riveted 
with  unconscious  interest  on  his  face. 

"  Have  you  never  attended  the  theatre  ?"  asked  he,  abruptly. 

"  Never." 

"  You  must  go.  Of  how  much  pleasure  have  you  been 
robbed  !  You  must  visit  the  city — you  must  go  to  the  theatre. 
You  must  see  something  of  the  world,  from  which  you  have 
been  so  long  excluded.  It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  that  you 
should  be  buried  here  in  this  solitude.  Are  you  contented, 
Rose  ?  Forgive  my  familarity,  but  I  cannot  help  calling 
you  so." 

"  I  suspect  I  have  my  share  of  contentment,"  she  replied 
with  a  smile,  though  a  shade  passed  over  her  brow.  "  I  ought 
to  be  happy,  I  am  sure,  for  I  reign  absolute  Queen  of  this 
little  realm.  My  wishes  are  laws  as  absolute  as  those  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians.  If  I  ain  tempted  to  sigh  for  pleasures 
beyond  iny  reach,  I  find  an  antidote  for  discontent  in  my 


BELL   AND   ROSE.  85 

books  and  flowers,  and  the  music  of  the  singing  fountain.  Is 
your  sister  perfectly  happy  ?  Are  you  ?" 

"  Yes  !  I  am  perfectly  happy  at  this  moment.  A  rose-leaf 
could  not  find  room  on  the  brimming  cup  of  my  felK-ity.  If  I 
did  not  look  from  that  window  and  see  the  sun  .sinking  lower 
and  lower,  and  know  there  would  soon  be  a  limit  to  my  hap- 
piness, I  could  defy  the  philosophy  of  Solon.  Oh  !  for  another 
Joshua  to  stay  the  evolutions  of  yon  golden  wheel  !" 

Frank  rose  to  depart.  He  felt  that  he  could  not,  with  pro- 
priety, linger  till  a  later  hour. 

"  May  I  ask  you  to  accompany  me  to  the  fountain  ?"  said 
he,  glad  to  find  an  excuse  to  prolong  his  stay  a  little  longer. 
"  I  do  not  understand  its  mysteries,  and  I  cannot  go  without 
a  drink  of  its  sparkling  waters." 

Rose  led  the  way  to  the  fountain,  bearing  in  her  hand  a 
silver  cup,  one  of  the  costliest  gifts  of  her  benefactress.  Frank 
thought  it  was  tin  till  he  took  it  in  his  own  hand,  and  then  he 
wondered  at  the  pure  massive  silver,  on  which  the  name  of 
Rose  was  engraven,  as  much  as  he  did  at  the  silvery  refine- 
ment of  her  language  and  the  grace  of  her  manners. 

"  You  were  not  educated  in  this  cottage,  Rose  ?"  said  he,  in 
a  tone  of  earnest  int'.est.  "Think  me  not  too  inquisitive 
and  impertinent,  but  tell  me  where  you  have  acquired  this 
mysterious  grace  and  elegance,  which  contrasts  so  strangely 
with  everything  around  and  about  you  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  nothing  can  be  more  graceful  than  the  fall  of 
the  fountain,"  answered  she,  playfully,  "  or  more  elegant  than 
this  clustering  foliage.  But,"  added  she,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
feeling,  "  you  are  right  in  your  supposition.  For  more  than 
ten  years  1  was  under  the  guardianship  of  the  best,  the  purest, 
the  most  refined  of  human  beings.  All  that  I  am  in  heart 
and  soul,  I  owe  to  her  precepts  and  example.  She  is  dead, 
but  her  memory  is  the  polar  star  of  my  existence,  to  which 
the  magnet  of  my  spirit  for  ever  turns." 

She  spoke  with  enthusiasm,  and  tears  trembled  bright  as 
the  spray  of  the  fountain  in  the  soft  depths  of  her  eyes. 

"  Oh !  that  my  mother  could  see  her — could  hear  her  I" 
thought  Frank.  "  She  shall  see  her — she  shall  hear  her — > 
and  her  aristocratic  prejudices  shall' be  charmed  away  by  the 
magic  of  her  presence." 

Slowly  they  sauntered  back  to  the  cottage,  and  very  slowly 
did  Frank  mount  his  horse  for  so  young  and  gay  a  gentleman. 
Rose  stood  in  the  door-way,  in  the  mellow  beams  of  the  setting 


86  BELL    AND   ROSE. 

sun.  One  of  the  sapphire-coloured  flowers  fell  from  her  hnir 
as  she  leaned  against  the  frame-work.  Frank  sprang  from  his 
horse,  and,  picking  it  up,  hid  it  in  the  folds  of  his  vest. 

"  When  I  come  again  I  will  bring  you  some  flowers  from 
Bell's  ^reen-house/'  said  he,  "  to  indemnify  you  for  the  loss 
of  this/' 

"Will  *he  never  come  again  herself?"  asked  Rose,  pained 
t  having  received  no  message  from  the  capricious  beauty. 

Frank  blushed,  remembering  his  mother's  prohibition.  He 
hardly  knew  what  to  reply. 

"She  did  not  know  I  was  coming.  I  was  selfish,  and 
wished  no  one  to  share  the  welcome  I  was  bold  enough  to 
think  was  in  store  for  me.  She  has  not  forgotten  you,  I 
assure  you." 

When  Frank  returned  home  he  took  very  good  care  to  keep 
out  of  his  mother's  way,  fearing  she  would  ask  him  where  he 
had  been.  How  often  from  this  time  he  visited  the  cottage, 
she  never  knew,  and  perhaps  he  did  not  know  himself.  He 
learned  to  measure  time  by  a  new  chronometer — and  that  was 
the  old-fashioned  hour  glass  on  the  farmer's  old  deal-table. 

One  afternoon,  just  as  he  was  turning  into  the  path  which 
led  to  the  farmer's  gate,  he  was  surprised  by  the  approach  of 
a  gentleman  on  horseback,  coming  from  the  house,  and  his 
surprise  was  not  diminished  when  he  recognised  the  stately 
bearing,  and  dark,  flashing  countenance  of  Mr.  Urvin.  A 
glance  of  mutual  astonishment  and  dissatisfaction  passed  be- 
tween them,  as,  with  rather  a  cold  bow,  they  rode  by  each 
other.  Frank's  face  glowed  with  crimson  as  he  saw  Mr.  Urvin 
look  sarcastically  at  the  magnificent  bouquet  which  he  had 
fastened,  in  some  mysterious  manner,  to  his  saddle-bow,  and 
at  the  bundle  of  books  which  he  carried  under  his  left  arm. 
In  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  resume  his  self-possession,  it  was 
with  the  air  of  an  indignant  and  deeply-injured  man  that  he 
entered  the  room  where  Hose  was  seated,  perfectly  uncon- 
scious of  his  approach  or  entrance.  She  was  leaning  on  the 
table  with  her  head  bowed  down  upon  her  hands,  while  her 
bosom  heaved  with  suppressed  sobs.  Frank  threw  the  books 
upon  the  table  without  speaking,  but  the  noise  made  her  start 
and  suddenly  lift  her  head.  She  smiled  through  showering 
tears,  and  hastily  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  en- 
deavoured to  efface  the  traces  of  her  deep  emotion.  Frank 
looked  so  cross  and  sombre  that  her  smile  vanished,  and  a 
pause  of  mutual  embarrassment  succeeded 


BELL   AND   ROSE.  87 

"  I  fear  I  am  an  intruder  this  evening,"  said  Frank,  tossing 
the  flowers  on  the  table,  instead  of  offering  them  to  her  with 
one  of  his  graceful  and  gallant  speeches.  a  You  seem  very 
much  preoccupied." 

"  I  must  be  pardoned  if  I  am  so,"  replied  Rose,  surprised 
and  wounded  by  his  cold  and  altered  manner.  "  All  the  re- 
membrances of  my  childhood  and  earlier  youth  have  been  most 
powerfully  and  vividly  awakened  by  the  visit  of  a  friend  from 
whom  I  have  been  long  separated.  I  did  not  know  I  was  so 
much  of  a  child  still." 

Again  she  paused  and  wiped  her  glistening  eyes.  "  This 
friend  is  Mr.  Urvin,  I  presume,  whom  I  met  at  your  gate," 
said  Frank,  in  a  voice  which  had  lost  all  its  music. 

"  Yes  !  the  brother  of  my  benefactress — the  guide,  the 
counsellor  of  my  youthful  mind.  I  have  not  seen  him  since 
the  death  of  his  sister,  and  we  both  felt,  in  all  its  first  force, 
our  irreparable  loss.  It  was  mine,"  continued  she,  with 
quivering  lip,  "  to  repeat  to  him  the  last  words  of  this  angelic 
woman." 

It  was  natural  to  suppose  that  Frank  would  have  sympa 
thized  in  her  sensibility,  and  exerted  himself  in  the  task  of 
consolation.  But  he  was  possessed  of  that  demon  whose  name 
is  Legion,  and  which  human  reason  never  yet  cast  out.  Never 
was  a  being  so  transformed.  He  could  not  sit  still  and  talk 
calmly  with  such  a  fever  burning  in  his  veins.  He  rose  and 
went  to  the  window,  and  made  terrible  destruction  among  the 
green  leaves  that  curtained  the  casement. 

"  Has  anything  displeased  you  ?"  asked  Rose,  with  inex- 
pressible sweetness  of  manner,  after  watching  him  for  some 
time  pulling  off  the  leaves,  crushing  them  in  his  fingers,  and 
hurling  them  through  the  air  with  a  look  of  determined  hos- 
tility. 

Ashamed  of  his  rudeness,  yet  unable  to  conquer  the  feeling 
which  caused  it,  he  turned  round  and  took  a  seat.  The  flush 
had  left  his  cheek,  and  Rose  was  struck  by  his  unusual  pale- 
ness. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden  appre- 
hension. "  How  exceedingly  pale  you  look  !  Let  me  run  to 
the  fountain  and  bring  you  some  water." 

"  No,  T\O  !"  cried  he,  thoroughly  ashamed  of  the  passion 
which  had  subdued  him.  "  I  am  well.  It  is  nothing  but  a 
fit  of  ill-humour.  Can  you  forgive  me  for  being  so  cross  and 
unamiable  ?" 


88  BELL  AND    ROSE. 

f  "  On  condition  that  you  tell  me  the  cause  of  the  phenome- 
non." 

"  I  know  I  have  no  cause  to  be  displeased,"  said  Frank, 
and  he  had  the  grace  to  stammer  a  little;  "  hut,  knowing  the 
perfect  seclusion  in  which  you  live,  you  cannot  wonder  at  my 
astonishment  on  seeing  a  man  whose  splendid  endowments  are 
the  admiration  of  the  fashionable  world,  your  departing  guest. 
The  deep  emotions  he  has  called  forth  are  another  mystery. 
I  dreamed  not  of  this  time-honoured  intimacy.  I  did  not  know 
that  the  being  existed  who  exercises  such  commanding  influ- 
ence on  your  sensibilities." 

"  That  is,  you  find  me  not  quite  so  lone  and  friendless  as 
you  imagined  me  to  be,"  said  Rose,  an  unwonted  fire  sparkling 
in  her  eye. 

"  And  yet  this  friend  has  been  for  many  weeks  in  the  city," 
said  Frank,  as  if  struck  with  a  sudden  thought,  his  counte- 
nance brightening  as  he  spoke.  "  And,  if  I  understand  you 
right,  this  is  the  first  time  he  has  visited  you.  How  can  you 
reconcile  this  with  his  early  friendship  ?" 

"  By  his  total  ignorance  of  my  abode.  When  he  left  the 
country  I  was  an  inmate  of  his  sister's  family ;  at  her  death  I 
returned  to  my  own  home.  He  knew  not  the  location  of  that 
humble  home,  and,  though  he  has  made  constant  inquiries,  it 
was  not  till  this  morning  that  he  ascertained  it.  He  is  too 
noble,  too  generous,  too  great  in  mind,  and  too  warm  in  heart 
to  forget  those,  however  lowly,  whom  he  has  once  honoured 
with  his  regard." 

She  spoke  with  warmth,  and  every  glowing  word  fell  cold 
as  ice  on  the  heart  of  Frank.  She  loved  him.  How  could 
she  help  it  ?  Was  not  the  apparently  heartless  Bell  herself 
enthralled  by  the  fascinations  of  this  man  ?  and  what  was  he 
in  comparison  ?  a  mere  mote  in  a  sunbeam.  He  had  been 
indulging  in  a  charming  dream,  but  it  was  past.  He  had 
deceived  himself  with  the  idea  that  Rose  liked  him ;  that  she 
regarded  him  with  a  growing  preference.  Her  smiles  and 
blushes  were  so  eloquent ;  and  then  how  often  had  he  imagined 
he  had  seen  the  love-light  beaming  in  her  modest,  but  expres- 
sive eyes  !  Yet  he  could  not  accuse  her  of  art  or  coquetry. 
He  had  so  far  mastered  the  demon  within  him  as  to  do  justice 
to  her  worth,  and  was  magnanimous  enough  even  to  justify 
her  choice. 

"  Here  are  some  books  which  I  have  brought  you,"  said 
he  j  "  you  may  find  something  to  interest  you  in  their  pages. 


BELL  AND  ROSE.  89 

I  hope  so,  at  least,  as  it  is  not  likely  I  shall  see  you  again 
very  soon." 

"  Why  not  ?"  ejaculated  Rose,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  do  not  feel  as  if  my  presence  here  could  impart  much 
pleasure,  or  my  absence  regret.  You  have  other  dearer  friends, 
with  whose  claims  I  would  not  interfere,  even  if  I  had  the 
presumption  to  believe  that  I  had  any  counter-influence." 

"  I  am  not  so  rich  in  friends  that  I  can  afford  to  lose  one 
as  soon  as  I  have  found  another,"  said  Rose,  giving  him  a 
glance  of  mingled  reproach  and  displeasure.  "  There  are  no 
claims  with  which  your  kindness  could  interfere — there  is  no 
influence  hostile  to  your  own." 

"  Ah  !  but  there  are  some  feelings  which  will  not  bear 
partnership,"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  kindling  countenance. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  side-gate  opened,  and  farmer  May- 
field  was  seen  approaching,  with  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  above 
his  elbows,  and  his  gleaming  scythe  cradled  on  his  shoulder. 
Rose  started  and  drew  back  with  a  heightened  colour.  Frank 
bade  her  a  hasty  adieu,  mounted  his  horse,  and  was  out  of 
sight  of  the  cottage  before  the  farmer  had  hung  his  scythe  in 
its  accustomed  place.  Then  he  repented  the  hasty  impulse 
which  had  led  him  to  avoid  the  father,  as  if  ashamed  of  him- 
self, or  the  honest  and  hard-labouring  man.  Slackening  his 
pace,  he  rode  leisurely  along,  trying  to  cool  the  fever  of  his 
thoughts.  He  hung  his  hat  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  so 
that  the  twilight  breeze  could  blow  upon  his  fervid  brow,  and 
fixing  his  eye  on  the  evening  star — that  fairest  gem  in  the 
resplendent  diadem  of  night — watched  the  little  white  fleecy 
clouds,  one  by  one,  glide  over  it,  turning  to  silver  as  they 
passed,  then  melt  away  in  the  soft  tranquillity  of  the  azure 
firmament. 

Mrs.  Raymond  had  been  so  absorbed  by  her  schemes  for 
Bell,  and  her  plans  to  secure  for  her  the  exclusive  devotion  of 
Mr.  Urvin,  that  she  had,  in  a  measure,  lost  sight  of  Frank. 
As  he  had  said  nothing  more  of  Rose,  she  imagined  that  there 
was  no  possible  danger  from  that  source,  and  Bell  had  never 
mentioned  that  her  name  had  ever  been  breathed  by  the  lips 
of  Mr.  Urvin.  Many  a  time  had  Bell  formed  the  resolution 
of  speaking  to  him  of  the  farmer's  daughter,  but  an  unconquei 
able  dread  of  having  her  fears  confirmed,  always  paralyzed  her 
tongue.  Though  she  dared  not  think  he  had  any  peculiar 
interest  in  herself,  there  was  no  one  in  her  own  circle  whose 
rivalship  she  feared,  and  she  felt  sure  she  had  conquered  his 


90  BELL   AND   ROSE. 

horror  of  a  lette.  He  evidently  sought  her  society,  and  paid 
her  the  great  and  unmistakable  compliment  of  addressing  her 
as  a  rational,  intelligent,  and  immortal  being.  Mrs.  Raymond 
grew  very  impatient  at  this  state  of  things,  and  counselled 
Bell  to  assume  certain  airs  and  graces,  which  she  had  the 
good  sense  to  perceive  would  only  create  disgust  or  ridicule. 

The  evening  after  Frank's  exciting  visit  to  Rose,  as  he  was 
ounging  on  a  sofa,  near  which  his  mother  was  seated,  while 
Bell  flitted  about  the  room,  superfluously  busy  about  nothing, 
some  chord  of  remembrance  was  struck  which  vibrated  to  the 
name  of  Rose  Mayfield.  It  might  have  been  a  dried  acacia 
sprig,  put  as  a  mark  in  one  of  Frank's  books,  or  a  withered 
rose,  or  the  engraving  of  a  cottage,  but  whatever  it  was,  the 
image  of  Rose  came,  a  charming  vision  before  her  mind's  eye, 
and  forgetting  the  presence  of  her  mother,  Bell  suddenly  asked 
Frank  when  he  had  seen  Rose  Mayfield. 

Roused  from  a  deep  revery  by  the  abrupt  question,  Frank, 
unprepared  to  make  an  evasive  answer,  and  disdaining  it  if  he 
were,  replied : 

"I  saw  her  this  very  afternoon." 

"  This  afternoon  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Raymond.  "  What ! 
that  farmer's  daughter !  that  low  girl,  with  whom  I  forbade 
you  having  the  least  intercourse  !  Frank,  Frank,  how  basely 
you  have  deceived  me  !" 

"  I  deny  the  charge  !"  cried  Frank,  springing  up  and  look- 
ing as  brave  as  a  lion.  "  I  have  never  deceived  you.  When 
you  laid  your  commands  upon  me,  I  told  you  I  was  no  longer 
a  boy,  nor  would  I  be  treated  as  such.  I  never  promised 
obedience — I  never  meant  to  do  so." 

"  Frank !"  cried  Mrs.  Raymond,  pale  and  trembling  with 
passion.  "  Is  this  the  respect  I  have  a  right  to  claim  ?  This 
insolent  defiance  of  my  express  prohibLJon — this  outrage  to 
propriety — this  disregard  of  your  own  social  position — this 
shocking  example  to  your  sister !" 

"  In  everything  else  I  have  tried  to  conform  to  your  wishes, 
mother,  but  I  cannot  adopt  your  narrow  prejudices,  or  sacrifice 
the  happiness  of  my  whole  life  to  cold,  heartless  pride." 

"  Frank,  there  is  not  another  gentleman  in  this  city,  who 
would  degrade  himself  as  you  have  done  !" 

"  What  do  you  think  of  your  admired  Mr.  Urvin — youi 
glass  of  fashion  and  your  mould  of  form  ?  Did  I  not  meet 
him  this  very  afternoon,  riding  from  her  gate  ?  He  is  her 
most  intimate  friend ;  the  brother  of  the  kdy  in  whose  home 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  91 

she  was  educated,  and  where  she  acquired  that  exquisite  refine- 
ment and  grace  of  manner  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  Ask 
him  the  next  time  you  see  him,  what  lie  thinks  of  Hose  May- 
field." 

"  Mr.  Urvin  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Raymond,  in  a  raised  voice. 
"  I  cannot  believe  he  has  any  interest  in  her,  unless  it  may  be 
charity.  His  attentions  to  Bell  have  been  too  marked  and 
exclusive  to  allow  of  such  a  thing,  even  if  he  were  tempted  to 
stoop  so  low." 

"  Mother !"  cried  Bell,  whose  face  had  turned  as  pale  as 
death,  while  Frank  was  speaking,  "  Mr.  Urvin  has  never  com- 
mitted himself  to  me,  by  word  or  look.  He  has  never  mani- 
fested for  me  more  than  the  interest  of  a  friend — never." 

"  Everybody  is  talking  about  his  attentions  to  you,  and 
your  admiration  of  him.  Everybody  is  congratulating  me  on 
your  brilliant  prospects.  It  is  your  own  fault,  if  he  is  not 
your  declared  lover — if  you  charm  him  one  moment,  you  repel 
him  the  next.  A  girl  with  half  your  attractions  might  have 
secured  him  loug  ago." 

"  Mother  !"  said  Bell,  with  a  dignity  of  manner  so  unwonted, 
so  unnatural,  that  Mrs.  Raymond  almost  doubted  her  identity. 
"  I  have  never  tried  to  secure  or  captivate  Mr.  Urvin.  I  formed 
the  rash  design  of  doing  so,  when  I  heard  he  avoided,  an  in- 
troduction to  me.  But  in  his  presence,  every  vain  and  foolish 
thought  dies  within  me.  I  only  feel  his  immeasurable  superi- 
ority, and  the  scorn  and  contempt  he  must  feel  for  every  little 
and  low-born  artifice.  I  have  never  thought  myself  worthy 
of  him.  I  believe  Rose  Mayfield  to  be  so.  The  first  evening 
he  ever  was  here,  I  overheard  him  utter  her  name  in  a  tone 
of  no  common  interest,  and  I  felt  a  conviction  that  he  loved 
her.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  Frank's  sake." 

"  Really  !"  cried  Mrs.  Raymond,  getting  more  and  more 
angry,  "  you  will  drive  me  crazy,  talking  about  this  girl.  If 
I  thought  Frank  had  one  serious  thought  of  marrying  such  a 
one  as  she — of  linking  himself  to  such  low  connexions — he 
should  never  darken  these  doors  again." 

"  Well,  mother,  I  have  had  a  great  many  serious  thought? 
about  marrying  her,  and  I  have  not  given  them  up  yet,  in 
spite  of  my  formidable  rival.  I  am  determined  to  enter  the 
lists  with  him,  and  he  who  wins  must  wear  her." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  assist  your  honourable  father-in-law  in 
the  work  of  the  farm,"  said  his  mother,  in  a  cold,  jeering  tone. 

"  I  should  not  think  myself  degraded  by  so  doing.     That 


92  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

little  cabin  would  be  to  me  lovely  as  the  bowers  of  Eden,  with 
a  Rose,  sweet  as  the  rose  of  Sharon,  blooming  there  for  me." 

"  Ridiculous  !  absurd  !  insulting  I"  cried  Mrs.  Raymond, 
traversing  the  carpet  with  the  true  tragedy  step.  "  If  you 
must  talk  in  this  outrageous  manner,  I  desire  you  to  leave  the 
room.  Your  presence  is  too  oppressive." 

"  Willingly,  my  dear  mother.  I  was  just  thinking  of 
taking  a  walk  in  the  garden.  Come,  Bell — the  star-light  is 
beautiful,  and  the  night-breeze  is  laden  with  the  fragrance  of 
a  thousand  flowers." 

Winding  his  arm  round  Bell,  they  were  about  to  leave  the 
room  together,  when  suddenly  turning  back,  he  approached 
his  mother,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  sorry,  I  am  grieved,  that  I  have  displeased  you,  my 
mother.  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  uttered  anything  disrespectful 
or  defying.  I  would  not  forget  my  duty  as  a  son,  while  I 
assert  my  independence  as  a  man.  Will  you  not  give  me  your 
hand  in  token  of  reconciliation  ?" 

"  I  want  no  hollow  professions,"  replied  she,  turning 
haughtily  away,  and  rejecting  his  offered  hand.  "  Actions 
speak  louder  than  unmeaning  words.  There  can  be  no  recon- 
ciliation that  is  not  founded  on  obedience." 

'The  brother  and  sister  left  their  exasperated  mother,  and 
sought  the  balmy  stillness  of  the  flower  garden.  They  walked 
in  silence  till  they  reached  an  arbour  of  lattice  work,  literally 
covered  with  odoriferous  vines.  There  they  sat  down,  when 
all  at  once  Bell  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  burst 
into  tears.  He  did  not  ask  her  why  she  wept,  for  his  heart 
told  him  why.  But  he  was  strangely  affected  by  tears  falling 
BO  copiously  from  eyes  so  unused  to  weep.  His  own  eyes 
glistened  with  sympathy,  and  pressing  her  tenderly  to  him,  he 
said: 

"  If  we  are  both  doomed  to  be  unhappy  by  the  same  cause, 
and  our  mother  casts  us  in  auger  away,  we  will  only  cling 
more  closely  to  each  other,  Bell,  and  love  each  other  with  a 
fonder,  deeper,  love." 


BELL  AND  ROSE.  93 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Look  on  a  love,  -which  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquenched,  is  still  my  better  part — 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart, 
As  dwells  the  gathered  lightning  in  the  cloud." — BYRON. 

"  Riches,  like  insects, 
Wait  but  for  wings,  and  in  a  moment  fly." — POPE. 

MR.  URVIN  purchased  an  elegant  house,  and  had  it  fur- 
nished according  to  his  own  classic  and  magnificent  taste — a 
widowed  lady,  a  distant  relative  of  his,  presided  over  the 
establishment — and  the  world  said  all  this  was  preparatory  to 
his  marriage  with  Bell  Raymond.  When  invitations  were 
issued  for  a  party  at  this  splendid  Bachelor's  Hall,  as  it  was 
styled,  a  thrill  of  pleasurable  excitement  went  through  the 
heart  of  the  social  circle.  But  the  deepest  thrill  was  felt  in 
Mrs.  Raymond's  vain,  ambitious  bosom. 

"  This,"  thought  she,  "  will  be  a  decisive  moment.  Should 
he  distinguish  Bell  by  public  attention  in  his  own  home,  it 
will  be  equivalent  to  a  declaration.  As  for  this  country  girl, 
Frank's  jealousy  has  exaggerated  her  pretensions.  Very 
likely  his  sister  might  have  taken  her  as  a  companion  or  an 
underling,  and  if  Bell  did  hear  him  mention  her  name,  he  was 
probably  recommending  her  as  a  chambermaid  or  a  seamstress. 
I  never  saw  anything  like  the  infatuation  of  these  children." 

Bell  looked  forward  to  the  evening  with  no  anticipations  of 
triumph.  A  great  change  had  come  over  her.  The  light 
and  flimsy  materials  which  had  long  disguised  the  naturally  fine 
proportions  of  her  character,  had  gradually  been  burning  out 
in  the  pure  and  vestal  flame  kindled  in  her  heart.  Vanity 
and  love  cannot  exist  together,  they  cannot  breathe  the  same 
atmosphere  j  for  humility,  with  softening  shadow,  follows  the 
footsteps  of  love,  and  the  eye,  fixed  with  adoring  gaze  on  the 
perfections  of  another,  forgets  to  admire  its  own  radiance.  I 

Bell  was  indeed  greatly  changed.  Her  mother  scolded  and 
fretted,  and  said  that  she  was  grown  dull  and  stupid,  and 
actually  losing  her  beauty  for  want  of  animation.  Bell  had1 
learned  to  think  that  beauty  was  not  the  only  charm  that 


94  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

could  captivate  the  heart  of  man.  The  dark,  searching  eye, 
whose  glance  rested  upon  her  with  such  power  and  intensity, 
penetrated  far  deeper  than  the  surface,  and  she  felt  as  if  there 
was  a  kind  of  omniscience  in  its  beam — as  if  all  her  folly  and 
waywardness  were  laid  bare  before  it,  neutralizing  the  transient 
admiration  that  beauty  might  inspire. 

It  was  late  when  they  entered  the  crowded  rooms,  for  Mrs. 
Raymond  always  liked  to  create  a  sensation  wherever  she  went. 
As  they  passed  along  with  slow  steps  through  the  human  waves 
that  divided  to  make  a  passage  for  them,  to  the  lady  of  the 
house,  Bell  started  as  if  a  shock  of  electricity  ran  through  her 
frame.  Through  the  vista  made  by  the  opening,  she  saw  their 
host,  at  the  upper  end  of  the  illuminated  apartment,  and  stand- 
ing by  him,  with  her  arm  linked  in  his,  was  a  young  girl, 
whom  she  had  never  before  met  in  the  halls  of  wealth  and 
fashion.  And  in  unadorned  white,  she  was  not  more  conspicu- 
ous for  the  simplicity  of  her  dress,  than  for  her  sweet  and 
blooming  loveliness.  She  looked  like  a  rose  freshly  plucked 
from  the  wild  wood,  in  all  its  dewy  fragrance  and  purity. 

"Who  is  that  beautiful  girl  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Urvin  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Raymond  in  a  tone  of  wonder  and  alarm. 

Bell  looked  everywhere  but  at  the  right  place.  She  felt  a 
mysterious  reluctance  to  mention  aloud  a  name  which  would 
ring  as  the  death-knell  of  all  her  hopes.  Mrs.  Raymond  re- 
peated the  question  impatiently  of  Frank,  whom  she  had  by 
no  means  restored  to  favour.  He,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
himself,  was  equally  blind  and  obtuse.  He  could  not  distin- 
guish Mr.  Urvin,  though  his  stately  figure  rose  above  all  that 
surrounded  him.  He  turned  his  head  to  the  right  and  left — 
looked  everywhere  but  straight  before  him — while  his  face 
reddened  and  his  brow  contracted.  In  the  mean  time,  Mr. 
Urvin  said  something  in  a  low  voice  to  the  young  lady,  who, 
withdrawing  her  arm,  drew  modestly  back  from  the  blaze  of 
the  chandelier,  while  Mr.  Urvin  advanced  to  meet  his  guests. 
Mrs.  Raymond's  jealous  fears  were  somewhat  soothed  by  the 
manner  in  which  he  accosted  Bell,  offered  her  his  arm,  and  re- 
quested the  privilege  of  introducing  her  to  a  young  friend  of 
his,  who  was  a  stranger  in  the  city,  and  to  whom  he  had  pro- 
mised the  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance.  Mrs.  Raymond's 
eyes  eagerly  followed  the  graceful  figure  of  her  daughter,  so 
beautifully  contrasted  with  the  tall  form  of  her  conductor,  and 
as  he  bowed  his  head,  evidently  conversing  with  her  in  a  low, 


f 

BELL   AND  ROSE.  95 

earnest  voice,  till  his  sable  hair  almost  touched  her  lustrous 
ringlets,  her  hopes  rose  from  their  unexpected  prostration. 

"  There,  Frank  !  you  can  see  her  now.  She  is  standing  by 
that  flower-stand  yonder,"  repeated  she.  "  What  a  be"autiful 
profile,  and  fine-turned  head  !  Who  can  she  be  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  her  pretty  ?"  asked  Frank,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
difference. "  Really,  you  have  a  strange  taste  !  Do  you  not 
think  there  is  something  low  and  vulgar  in  her  air  ?  I 
shrewdly  suspect  she  is  a  parvenue." 

"  I  ought  not  to  wonder  at  your  difference  of  opinion,"  said 
his  mother  in  a  tone  of  sarcasm,  "  since  you  have  lately  given 
such  a  proof  of  the  refinement  and  fastidiousness  of  your  own 
taste.  This  young  lady  has  a  decidedly  distinguished  air,  and 
must  be  somebody,  or  Mr.  Urvin  would  not  have  honoured  her 
by  his  attention.  See — he  is  introducing  her  to  Bell.  Why 
don't  you  go  and  seek  an  introduction  yourself,  instead  of 
looking  so  red  and  stupid,  and  staring  at  her  so  strangely  ?" 

"  Well,  I  will  go,  and  then  introduce  her  to  you,  mother. 
Perhaps  she  will  look  better  on  a  nearer  view." 

Mrs.  Raymond  seated  herself  where  she  could  watch  the 
trio,  now  standing  by  the  pyramid  of  flowering  plants,  which 
formed  a  blooming  back-ground  to  their  figures,  and  brought 
them  out  in  strong  relief. 

'•'  Frank  seems  to  have  made  an  impression,"  thought  she, 
noting  the  radiant  blush  and  smile  with  which  she  received 
his  low  bow.  "  He  is  a  handsome  boy,  and  knows  how  to 
make  himself  agreeable,  too.  Perhaps  this  young  lady  is  an 
heiress.  If  she  is,  Heaven  grant  that  she  may  cure  him  of 
his  disgraceful  partiality  for  that  farmer's  daughter !  But 
supposing  Mr.  Urvin  himself " 

She  would  not  admit  the  painful  suggestion  that  pressed 
upon  her  thoughts.  It  was  not  very  long  before  Frank  ap- 
proached her,  arm  in  arm  with  the  beautiful  stranger.  It  is 
seldom,  on  a  first  introduction,  especially  in  a  buzzing  crowd, 
that  one  hears  the  name  distinctly.  Perhaps  Frank  did  not 
articulate  as  clearly  as  usual,  or  her  hearing  might  be  a  little 
obtuse.  She  certainly  understood  him  to  say  Miss  Haymead, 
and  nothing  could  exceed  the  cordial  politeness  of  her  man- 
ner. 

Frank  had  expected  a  start  of  amazement,  a  look  of  em- 
barrassment and  displeasure.  He  could  not  account  for  the 
smiling  ease  and  suavity  which  animated  her  manner,  but  he 
rejoiced  in  it.  H«  soon,  however,  was  made  aware  of  the 


96  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

truth,  by  her  addressing  the  young  lady  as  Miss  Haymead. 
Whether  Rose  (for  every  one  must  know  that  it  was  Rose 
Mayfield  thus  suddenly  transplanted  among  the  exotics  of 
fashion)  did  not  notice  the  mistake,  or  whether  she  was  deter- 
red from  correcting  it  by  the  flashing  movement  of  Frank's 
eye,  she  suffered  it  to  pass  without  comment.  Mrs.  Raymond 
appeared  enchanted  by  her  conversation,  and  Frank,  yielding 
himself  to  the  joyous  influences  of  the  psesent  moment,  forgot 
his  jealous  madness,  and  his  spirits  rose  and  sparkled  and 
effervesced,  till  Rose  caught  the  contagion  and  laughed  as  gayly 
as  Bell  had  done  in  her  own  cottage  home. 

Frank  was  not  allowed  to  monopolize  one  who  was  invested 
with  the  attractive  charm  of  novelty,  and  who,  rumour  said, 
was  a  niece  of  the  distinguished  host.  She  was  surrounded 
by  admirers,  eager  to  secure  her  attention,  and  even  the  beauti- 
ful Bell  was  eclipsed  by  the  blooming  cottage  maid. 

"  Have  you  ascertained  if  she  is  an  heiress,  Frank  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Raymond  of  her  son. 

"  Yes,  mother  !  She  has  an  inheritance  richer,  by  far,  than 
any  one  in  this  assembly,  and  what  is  more,  it  is  secured  by 
such  inalienable  rights,  that  it  cannot  be  taken  away  from, 
her." 

"  I  trust  you  will  profit  by  the  opportunity,"  cried  the 
worldly,  scheming  woman.  "She's  evidently  pleased  with 
you,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  succeed,  if  you  try.  You 
cannot  now  bestow  a  thought  on  the  low  girl,  whom  you  pre- 
tended to  admire  so  much." 

"  Nevertheless,  mother,  she  is  just  as  pretty  and  accom- 
plished as  this  charming  Miss  Hayflower." 

"Ridiculous  !  Let  me  hear  no  more  of  this  folly." 
"  But  Mr.  Urvin — you  forget  him.     How  can  I  contend 
with  such  a  powerful  rival  ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  your  rival  ?  I  told  you  before, 
that  the  world  had  given  him  to  your  sister,  and  his  attentions 
have  justified  the  report.  Besides,  you  are  much  younger  and 
handsomer  than  he  is." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,  mother ;  but  she  may  not 
see  with  your  eyes." 

Before  the  company  dispersed,  she  took  the  most  elaborate 
pains  to  seek  Miss  Haymead  and  inquire  her  address,  that  she 
and  her  daughter  might  have  the  honour  of  calling  on  her. 

"  I  reside  in  the  country,"  answered  the  young  girl,  looking 
down,  while  a  smile  played  upon  her  lips. 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  97 

"  Indeed  !  I  shall  certainly  trouble  Mr.  Urvin  to  direct  us 
to  your  residence." 

"  Your  son  has  my  address,  madam,"  said  Rose,  with  a 
blush  which  Mrs.  Raymond  hailed  as  the  surety  of  his  success. 
Another  circumstance  elated  her  spirits — Mr.  Urvin  accom- 
panied Bell  to  the  carriage,  and  wrapped  her  shawl  around  her 
with  his  own  hands — an  attention  she  had  not  seen  him  bestow 
upon  a  lady  before. 

"  What  a  charming  young  lady  Miss  Haymead  is  !"  ex- 
claimed she,  as  the  carriage  rolled  over  the  pavement. 

"  Miss  who  ?"  cried  Bell,  elevating  her  voice.  Frank  gave 
her  arm  an  admonishing  pinch,  and  whispered,  "hush!" 

11  Miss  Haymead  !  The  young  lady  who  created  such  a 
sensation  to-night.  I  am  sure  you  must  know  whom  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  the  beautiful  stranger.  Were  you  really  pleased 
with  her,  mother  ?" 

"  Pleased  !  I  was  charmed — and  I  am  glad  the  scales  have 
fallen  from  Frank's  eyes  at  last,  so  that  he  can  perceive  what 
true  beauty  and  gentility  is." 

Bell  burst  into  one  of  her  old  musical  laughs. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  such  spirits,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Mr.  Urvin  talked  with  you  a  great  deal  to-night.  I  hope  he 
said  something  to  the  purpose." 

"  He  never  seems  to  utter  an  aimless  word,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Precious  are  the  words  which  the  lips  of  wisdom  utter," 
added  she,  in  a  low,  soliloquizing  voice. — 

"  They  be  white-winged  seeds  of  happiness,  wafted  from  the  islands 
of  the  blest, 

Which  thought  carefully  tendeth,  in  the  kindly  garden  of  the  heart. 

They  be  sproutings  of  an  harvest  for  eternity,  bursting  through  the 
tilth  of  time, 

Green  promise  of  the  golden  wheat,  that  yieldeth  angels'  food. 

They  be  drops  of  crystal  dew,  which  the  wings  of  seraphs  scatter, 

When  on  some  brighter  Sabbath,  their  plumes  quiver  most  with  de- 
light." 

"  Why,  Bell,  I  thought  you  did  not  know  more  than  six 
lines  of  poetry  by  heart,"  said  Frank. 

"  These  are  the  very  six  lines  I  do  know." 

"  And  how  came  you  to  remember  these  ?" 

"  I  heard  Mr.  Urvin  quote  them." 

"  I  think  it  was  time  he  was  saying  something  more  sub- 


98  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

stantial  than  poetry,"  interrupted  Mrs.   Raymond  angrily. 
"  Tell  me,  Bell,  has  he  not  spoken  to  you  of  marriage  yet  ?" 

"  He  has  spoken  of  marriage  in  general,  but  not  in  par- 
ticular, mother." 

"  I  think  he  is  old  enough  to  make  up  his  mind. 

"  You  forget  Rose  Mayfield,  mother,  and  what  Frank  told 
you  about  her." 

The  darkness  of  night  concealed  her  countenance,  and  her 
mother  did  not  notice  the  tremor  of  her  voice. 

Rose  Fiddlestick  !"  she  exclaimed.     "  Never  mention  that 


Mrs.  Raymond  felt  as  if  she  could  have  killed  the  fatted 
calf  for  her  repentant  prodigal  as  soon  as  they  arrived  at  home, 
so  delighted  was  she  with  the  return  of  his  native  aristocracy. 

It  was  well  for  her  that  she  was  unconscious  of  the  terrible 
"blow  impending,  though  when  it  fell,  it  crushed — almost  an- 
nihilated her — and  she  lay  a  miserable  victim  beneath  the 

ruins  of  wealth  and  pride.  The Bank,  in  which  all 

her  property  was  invested,  failed,  and  hundreds  who  were 
rolling  in  affluence,  were  reduced  to  sudden  penury.  The 
brother  and  sister  were  at  first  stunned  and  dismayed,  and 
then  Bell  wept  and  sobbed  like  a  heart-broken  child.  But 
after  this  ebullition  of  passionate  regret,  it  was  astonishing 
with  what  calmness  and  fortitude  she  looked  the  future  in 
the  face,  dark  and  threatening  as  it  seemed.  Her  mind,  with 
elastic  power,  rebounded  from  the  pressure  beneath  which  her 
mother  impotently  groaned,  and  she  exulted  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  new-born  energies.  Frank,  too,  was  grave  and  thought- 
ful, but  not  despairing.  It  was  for  Bell  he  trembled,  not  for 
himself;  but  when  he  saw  her  so  brave  and  self-relying,  it 
made  him  doubly  strong. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  shed  another  tear,  Frank,"  said  she. 
"  I  feel  now,  that  I  shall  have  an  aim  for  which  to  live.  I 
remember  a  remark  of  Mr.  Urvin's,  that  labour  was  the  great 
sacrament  of  life.  Is  not  that  a  noble  sentiment  ?  I  am  sure 
I  shall  feel  happier  to  be  doing  something,  than  leading  such 
a  useless,  idle,  and  selfish  existence,  as  I  have  hitherto  done." 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  very  noble  to  labour.  But  what  can  you 
do  ?  I  can  work — I  can  toil — I  can  do  either  head-work  or 
hand-work,  but  what  can  you  do  with  those  fair,  feeble  hands, 
and  that  little  girlish  head  ?" 


BELL   AND   ROSE1.  99 

"I  can  do  a  great  deal,  sir.  I  can  teach  a  school,  give 
music  or  embroidery  lessons.  Drawing  and  painting  I  under- 
stand. I  am  willing  to  do  anything  but  take  in  sewing.  I 
believe  that  would  kill  me." 

"  /  shall  be  able  to  support  you  and  mother  both.  You 
shall  never  toil  for  a  subsistence." 

"  We  must  give  up  this  beautiful  house,"  said  Bell. 

"  And  get  some  neat  little  cottage  in  the  country,"  cried 
Frank,  "  with  a  small  farm  and  a  dairy." 

"  Oh  !  that  will  be  delightful,"  exclaimed  Bell ;  "but  poor 
mother  !  I  fear  she  will  never  be  happy  again.  It  is  dreadful 
to  hear  her  bewailings  and  murmurs.  What  shall  we  do  with 
her  ?" 

Yes,  what  was  to  be  done  with  Mrs.  Raymond  ?  That  was 
the  question.  She  was  the  most  refractory  and  unmanageable 
being  in  the  world.  While  her  children  were  bravely  wrest- 
ling with  their  destiny,  in  all  their  youth  and  inexperience, 
appealing  to  her  for  counsel  and  encouragement,  she  gave  her- 
self up  to  frantic  and  impatient  grief.  She  would  not  hear, 
of  giving  up  the  house  she  inhabited,  with  its  costly  and 
elegant  furniture,  and  live  in  some  little  mean  hovel,  which 
they,  with  their  grovelling  tastes,  might  be  satisfied  in.  She 
was  not  sunk  so  low  as  that.  Bell  should  never  degrade 
herself  by  teaching  school  or  giving  private  lessons.  Frank 
should  never  perform  a  hireling's  duty,  or  accept  a  hireling's 
wages. 

"  But  what  shall  we  live  upon,  mother  ?"  asked  the  son. 
"  How  shall  we  pay  our  daily  expenses  ?" 

"  How  do  other  people  live,  who  have  failed,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?  I  know  many  a  family  which  has  kept  up  the  same 
style  as  before,  only  more  elegant  and  luxurious.  We  can  do 
as  they  do." 

"  Oh  !  mother,  how  can  you  speak  in  this  manner  to  your 
children,  who  are  willing  to  do  anything  for  themselves  and 
you  ?"  cried  Frank,  his  cheek  burning  with  the  hue  of  shame. 

"  There  is  certainly  no  need  of  raising  all  this  hue  and  cry 
at  present.  No  one  is  going  to  turn  us  out  of  house  and  home. 
A  family  occupying  the  rank  which  ours  does,  will  be  treated 
with  more  consideration.  As  for  you,  you  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  address  Miss  Haymead  immediately,  and  secure  her 
fortune ;  and  as  for  you,  Bell,  a  very  little  manoeuvring  will 
bring  Mr.  Urvin,  cold  and  haughty  as  he  is,  to  your  feet." 

"  Oh !  mother !"  it  was  Bell's  turn  to  exclaim,  "  will  you 


100  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

never  understand  me?  When  I  first  saw  him  of  whom  you 
now  speak,  I  was  vain  and  bold  enough  to  meditate  the  con- 
quest of  his  noble  heart,  willing  even  to  stoop  to  artifice  and 
manoeuvring,  to  effect  my  design.  But  now,  since  I  know 
him,  and  know  myself  better,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  allur- 
ing the  sun  from  his  central  throne,  as  to  dream  of  winning 
him  by  those  light  and  meretricious  acts  his  influence  has 
taught  me  to  loathe  and  to  scorn.  No,  mother,"  continued 
she — and  her  blue  eye  lighted  up  with  the  enthusiasm  she  had 
long  kept  down  in  her  bosom,  as  something  too  sacred  for 
show,  and  shed  a  sudden  glory  upon  her  face — "were  he  freely 
and  unsought,  to  offer  me  his  love,  and  were  I  worthy  of  such 
a  gift,  a  long  life  were  all  too  short  to  prove  my  gratitude  and 
joy.  But  never,  never  speak  of  it  again.  It  is  humiliating 
to  us  both." 

Without  waiting  for  her  mother  to  »eply,  Bell  hurried  from 
the  room,  sighing  for  the  want  of  that  maternal  sympathy  and 
support  for  which  her  yearning  spirit  vainly  sought. 

Mr.  Urvin  did  not  desert  them  in  these  darkened  moments. 
He  came  more  frequently,  was  more  kind  and  assiduous  than 
ever.  With  equal  delicacy  and  generosity,  he  offered  all  the 
assistance  which,  as  a  friend,  he  felt  privileged  to  bestow.  Mrs. 
Raymond  would  eagerly  have  availed  herself  of  his  politeness, 
as  she  called  it,  but  the  children  struggled  nobly  with  her 
selfish  resolve. 

"  We  can  never  repay  him,"  they  said ;  "  we  cannot  live 
under  the  burthen  of  obligations  so  painfully  incurred.  We 
must  rely  on  ourselves,  and  we  never  shall  be  younger,  stronger, 
or  more  able  to  cope  with  our  destiny." 

In  spite  of  the  frowns  and  reproaches  of  her  mother,  Bell 
unfolded  her  plans  to  Mr.  Urvin,  and  frankly  asked  his  advice 
as  to  the  best  course  to  be  adopted.  His  countenance  lighted 
up  with  pleasure  as  she  spoke.  The  glance  he  bent  upon  her 
was  full  of  encouragement  and  approbation. 

"  I  know  your  motives,"  said  he.  "  I  admire  your  resolution. 
I  thank  you  warmly  for  your  confidence  in  my  friendship  and 
your  appeal  to  my  judgment.  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world 
to  assist  your  noble  design.  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  find  in 
your  accomplishments  an  ample  resource,  and  your  brother's 
talents  will  enable  him  to  secure  some  ofiice  of  honour  and 
emolument." 

"  Do  you  advise  my  daughter  to  advertise  as  a  hireling,  for 


BELL   AND   ROSE.  101 

•wages?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Raymond,  a  hot,  red  flush  spreading 
over  her  face. 

"  I  would  advise  her  to  follow  the  noble  impulse  that  urges 
her  to  gird  herself  for  the  trials  and  discipline  of  life,  madam." 

"  But  the  disgrace,  Mr.  Urvin.!" 

"  There  is  no  disgrace  in  the  performance  of  duty.  There 
is  honour,  there  is  glory  in  it.  Believe  me,  madam,  your 
daughter  will  be  far  more  worthy  of  admiration,  giving  lessons 
in  music  and  drawing,  in  your  present  emergency,  than  as 
the  belle  of  a  brilliant  assembly,  the  cynosure  of  beauty  and 
fashion." 

Bell  looked  towards  him,  her  eyes  radiant  with  gratitude. 
How  strong,  how  hopeful,  how  happy  she  felt !  She  longed 
to  begin  her  new  life  of  duty  and  self-exertion.  She  talked 
with  animation  of  the- future,  which  brightened  in  the  sun- 
shine of  Mr.  Urviu's  anrroving  smile.  Never  had  she  seen 
him  smile  so  benignly.  If  ever  had  his  voice  sounded  so  gently 
in  her  ear.  Did  he  indeed  love  Rose  Mayfield  ? 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Raymond,  as  soon  as  he  had  de- 
parted, "  it  is  all  over  now.  If  he  ever  thought,  of  marrying 
you,  he  would  never  counsel  you  to  take  such  a  course.  That 
is  certain.  You  might  have  had  him  if  you  had  followed  my 
advice,  instead  of  turning  into  such  a  poor,  hum-drum,  spirit- 
less thing.  Ah,  me  !  who  would  wish  to  be  a  mother  ?" 

Poor  Mrs.  Raymond ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame." — COLERIDGE. 

"Hence,  bashful  cunning! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me." — SHAKSPEARE. 

IN  spite  of  the  opposition  of  Mrs.  Raymond,  the  proposed 
plans  were  carried  into  operation.  The  house  was  given  up 
for  one  suited  to  their  altered  circumstances.  Bell,  through 
the  influence  of  Mr.  Urvin,  who  assumed  all  the  responsibili- 
ties of  her  instalment,  obtained  as  many  pupils  in  music  and 
drawing  as  she  desired.  Prank  accepted  the  office  of  clerk  in 


102  BELL  AND   ROSE. 

one  of  the  largest  mercantile  establishments  in  the  city.  The 
merchant  had  been  a  friend  of  his  late  father,  and  was  anxious 
to  assist  the  young  man  who  was  willing  to  assist  himself. 

Thus  the  winter  months  passed  away,  and  they  might  have 
been  happy  were  it  not  for  the  peevish  repinings  of  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond. It  is  not  probable  that  Frank  had  forgotten  Rose,  or 
„  that  he  did  not  occasionally  visit  the  farmer's  cottage.  When 
his  mother  persecuted  him  about  Miss  Haymead,  he  always 
told  her  that  he  did  visit  and  pay  court  to  her,  and  that  when 
he  could  hold  his  head  a  little  higher  he  intended  to  propose. 

One  evening,  after  Bell  had  dismissed  her  pupils,  she  sat 
leaning  her  head  on  the  piano,  in  a  dejected,  listless  attitude. 
She  felt  that  sudden  subsidence  of  the  spirits,  that  sinking  of 
the  heart  which  persons  of  ardent  sensibility  often  experience, 
and  for  which  they  cannot  account.  The  burden  of  life  began 
to  press  a  little  heavier  upon  her.  The  excitement  of  novelty 
was  long  since  past,  and  the  monotony  of  her  daily  task  at 
this  moment  assumed  an  aspect  of  absolute  dreariness.  She 
thought  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  toil  even  ten  times  harder 
than  she  was  compelled  to  do,  sustained  by  the  love  of  one 
whose  name,  even  in  thought,  made  all  the  pulses  of  her  being 
thrill.  His  friendship  was  the  most  precious  boon  of  heaven ; 
but  his  love — Oh !  that  would  be  Heaven  itself. 

"  Oh  !  not  for  me,  not  for  me  !"  murmured  she  to  herself, 
while  the  tears  glided  faster  and  faster  down  her  pale  cheeks. 

"  In  tears,  Bell !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Urvin,  entering  at  this 
moment  with  unusually  gentle  tread.  "  In  tears  !"  repeated 
he,  approaching  her,  and,  sitting  down  by  her,  he  took  one  of 
her  trembling  hands  in  his.  "  What  has  occurred  to  sadden 
this  brave,  resisting  spirit  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  she,  hastily.  "  I  am  very  foolish — • 
very  childish — but  sometimes  there  is  such  a  balm  in  tears  I" 

11  You  are  weary.  Your  life  is  too  monotonous,  too  seden- 
tary. Your  burthen  is  greater  than  you  can  bear.  Lean  on 
me — my  arm  is  strong,  and  my  heart  is  firm.  Sympathy,  my 
poor  child,  is  the  sweetest  privilege  of  friendship." 

Laying  his  hand  soothingly  on  her  head,  which  bowed  be- 
neath his  light  touch,  he  drew  still  nearer  to  her.  Then  he 
talked  to  her  in  low,  gentle,  yet  earnest  accents,  of  the  disci- 
pline of  life ;  of  the  fire  by  which  the  gold  of  the  heart  must 
be  purified  of  its  dross ;  of  the  clouds  of  suffering,  which,  like 
those  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun,  change  to  golden 
radiance  beneath  the  rays  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 


BELL    AND  ROSE.  103 

"  Oli  !"  thought  she,  "  if  friendship  is  so  sweet,  so  con- 
soling, why  should  I  sigh  for  love  ?" 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  relinquish  your  present  toilsome 
mode  of  existence?"  he  asked.  "  Have  you  never  dreamed 
of  happiness  which  cannot  be  enjoyed  alone  ?  Does  your  heart 
feel  no  dearth,  no  void,  which  the  consciousness  of  duties 
performed,  which  even  the  hope  of  Heaven  cannot  fill  ?" 

Never  had  he  spoken  with  such  thrilling  earnestness.  Bell 
lifted  her  eyes  to  bow  them  again  before  a  glance  of  dazzling, 
burning  power,  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Raymond 
entered  with  her  usual  imposing  air.  Mr.  Urvin  rose  from 
his  chair  with  a  slight  contraction  of  the  brow,  indicative  of 
vexation.  Bell,  who  had  felt  as  if  the  crisis  of  her  destiny 
were  at  hand,  when  her  trembling  hopes  were  to  be  confirmed, 
or  her  haunting  fears  made  truths,  never  had  known  her 
mother's  presence  so  oppressive.  Frank  entered  soon  after, 
and  under  no  circumstances  could  he  be  an  unwelcome  guest, 
there  was  something  so  gladdening  and  care-dispelling,  and,  . 
in  spite  of  a  little  occasional  brusqucrie,  and  don't  care  for 
anything  kind  of  manner,  so  love-creating  about  him. 

"  Frank,"  said  Mr.  Urvin,  "  I  want  you  and  your  sister  to 
take  a  ride  in  the  country  with  me  to-morrow.  You  can  go 
on  horseback  if  you  please.  Close  confinement  is  wilting  the 
roses  of  her  cheek,  and  the  pure,  rustic  breeze,  fresh  from  the 
mountains,  will  do  BO  injury  to  yourself.  Would  you  like  it, 
Bell?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  she  replied,  with  so  much  eagerness  she  blushed 
afterwards,  and  wished  she  could  school  her  feelings  better. 

"  I  have  promised  my  young  friend,  Hose  Mayfield,  this 
pleasure  long  since,"  said  he.  "  You  are  mere  acquaint- 
ances now — I  want  you  to  become  friends — intimate,  lite-long 
friends." 

"  Rose  Mayfield !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Raymond,  giving  hei 
head  one  of  its  old-fashioned  tosses.  "  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Ur- 
vin, that  I  have  no  desire  that  my  daughter  should  form  such 
intimacies.  If  we  have  lost  our  fortune,  we  can  at  least  re- 
tain our  respectability  and  self-respect." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,  madam,  to  endanger  either.  On  the 
contrary,  they  will  both  be  enhanced  by  the  intimacy  I  have 
urged  on  your  daughter." 

"  Why,  she  is  nothing  but  a  poor  farmer's  daughter  !" 

"  Mother  !"  interrupted  Bell,  "  you  forget  she  is  i  friend  of 
Mr.  Urvin' s — the  adopted  daughter  of  his  sister.  Surely  you 


104  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

would  not  wound  his  feelings  by  disparaging  remarks  upon 
one  in  whom  he  is  so  deeply  interested." 

"  If  Mr.  Urvin  chooses  to  form  such  associations,"  said  the 
lady,  exasperated  on  account  of  this  depth  of  interest,  which 
she  considered  an  outrageous  injury  to  Bell,  "  I  am  sure  it  is 
no  business  of  mine.  But  in  my  own  family,  I  might  expect 
some  little  influence  and  authority.  I  do  not  consider  Miss 
Rose  Mayfield  a  proper  companion  for  my  children." 

"  You  appeared  to  admire  her  very  much,  madam,  when  she 
had  the  honour  of  an  introduction  to  you,"  observed 'he,  with 
a  sarcastic  smile. 

"Ill  never  saw  the  girl  in  my  life." 

"  Pardon  me  for  contradicting  you,  but  you  met  her  under 
my  own  roof,  where  she  divided  with  your  daughter  the  ad- 
miration of  a  large  and  brilliant  assembly." 

"I  remarked  no  stranger  but  Miss  Haymead,"  cried  she, 
beginning  to  look  very  red. 

"  Excuse  me,  mother,"  said  Frank,  coming  forward.  "  I 
introduced  her  to  you  as  Miss  Mayfield.  The  improvement 
you  made  upon  her  name,  was  an  idea  of  your  own.  I  sup- 
pose you  thought  it  more  aristocratic." 

"  If  you  have  all  entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  deceive  and 
make  a  fool  of  me,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other  with  inexpressible  displeasure,  '<  I  know  not  which 
most  to  admire,  the  silliness  or  impertinence  of  the  plot." 

"  It  was  pure  accident,  mother,"  said  Frank.  "  I  intended 
to  correct  the  mistake,  but  you  seemed  so  charmed  with  her, 
I  feared  to  break  the  spell." 

"  You  said  she  was  the  heiress  of  a  rich  inheritance.  What 
a  base  deception !" 

"  She  is,"  cried  Mr.  Urvin,  with  dignity.  "  Your  son  has 
uttered  nothing  but  the  truth.  She  is  the  heiress  of  an  inheri- 
tance '  incorruptible,  undefiled,  and  that  passeth  not  away/ 
Nor  is  this  all,  she  has  in  reversion,  a  fortune  which  you  will 
probably  deem  of  far  greater  worth.  As  the  adopted  daughter 
of  my  sister,  she  would  have  been  splendidly  endowed,  had 
not  treachery  robbed  her  of  her  rightful  dowry.  I  shall  do 
her  that  justice  myself,  which  my  sister  was  prevented  from 
doing.  Heaven  has  blessed  me  with  an  ample  fortune,  which. 
I  intend.  G-od  willing,  that  Rose  Mayfield  shall  share.  She 
will  be  no  dowerless  bride  for  the  man,  who,  appreciating  her 
matchless  excellence,  shall  bind  her  to  his  heart  by  those  ties 
which  only  crime  or  death  can  sever ;  and  now,  madam,"  added 


BELL  AND  ROSE.  105 

he,  subduing  the  somewhat  commanding  tone  of  his  voice, 
"  I  shall  deem  any  remarks  derogatory  to  Rose  Mayfield,  as 
an  insult  to  myself,  who  am  proud  to  consider  myself  her 
guardian  and  her  friend." 

Mrs.  Raymond  was  too  much  awed  hy  his  manner,  and  the 
dark  fire  that  flashed  from  his  eye,  to  attempt  a  reply.  Un- 
able to  suppress  her  mortification,  she  abruptly  left  the  room 
and  retired  to  her  own,  where  we  do  not  believe  any  one  had 
the  least  inclination  to  follow  her. 

"  Rose  will  share  his  fortune,"  again  and  again  sighed  the 
throbbing  heart  of  Bell.  "  It  is  as  his  wife,  he  means.  I 
though — I  knew — yes — I  knew  it  would  be  so." 

"  Rose  will  share  his  fortune  I"  repeated  Frank,  to  himself. 
"  Then  it  is  decided,  and  there  is  no  earthly  hope  for  such  a 
poor  fellow  as  myself.  Heaven  preserve  me  from  the  mean- 
ness of  envy,  and  bind  up  the  wound  which  I  fear  will  be  in- 
flicted on  the  heart  of  my  noble  Bell." 

"  To-morrow  !"  said  Mr.  Urvin  in  departing.  "  I  trust  wo 
shall  have  a  happy  day." 

He  looked  very  happy  himself,  but  he  left  thoughtful,  seri- 
ous faces  behind  him. 

It  was  a  bright,  blue,  vernal  morning,  and  when  Bell  found 
herself  by  Mr.  Urvin  in  an  elegant  carriage,  while  Frank  rode 
as  a  cavalier  in  advance,  she  felt,  whatever  life  had  in  store 
for  her,  there  was  joy,  there  was. rapture,  in  the  present 
moment.  Mr.  Urvin's  manner  was  so  kind  and  tender,  his 
conversation  so  fascinating — how  could  she  think  of  any- 
thing else  ?  Then  the  air  was  so  balmy  with  the  incense 
of  opening  flowers,  so  full  of  the  sweet  music  of  singing  waters 
and  warbling  birds  and  rustling  leaves,  her  young  heart, 
liberated  from  the  restraint  of  daily  discipline,  throbbed  in 
unison  with  the  great,  glad  heart  of  nature.  The  ride  seemed 
all  too  short,  when  they  stopped  at  a  large  white  gate,  in 
front  of  a  handsome  new  house,  built  in  the  cottage  style,  in 
the  midst  of  a  beautiful  green  yard,  shaded  by  acacia  trees. 
Bell  cast  an  inquiring  glance  towards  her  companion,  who, 
smiling  at  her  bewildered  expression,  sprang  from  the  carriage, 
and  assisted  her  to  descend. 

"  Our  hostess  stands  at  the  door  to  welcome  us,"  said  he. 
"  Do  you  recognise  her  ?" 

Bell  looked,  but  the  hostess  was  not  standing  in  the  door ; 
she  was  running  down  the  steps  to  meet  them,  and  Bell  was 
sure,  from  her  dress  and  manner,  that  they  were  expected 
124 


106  BELL  AND  ROSE. 

guests.  A  glow,  bright  as  the  morning,  dawned  on  her  face. 
She  ushered  them  into  a  little  parlour,  newly  and  handsomely 
furnished,  containing  nothing  to  remind  one  of  the  old  room 
in  the  cabin,  but  the  hour-glass,  which  now  stood  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  the  boughs  of  the  acacia  trees,  that  shaded 
the  windows. 

'"  You  miss  the  old  cabin,"  said  Rose,  "  do  you  not  ? 
Yonder  it  is,  in  the  back-ground,  and  there  Hannah  presides, 
the  happiest  of  human  beings.  Can  you  imagine  what  modern 
Aladdin  has  built  this  palace  for  our  abode,  leaving  us  almost 
without  a  wish,  certainly  without  a  want  ?" 

She  cast  a  grateful,  Bell  thought  an  adoring,  glance  at  Mr. 
Urvin,  whose  countenance  beamed  with  joy.  Yes,  the  shelves 
of  books  were  there  also,  hanging  on  the  wall.  Frank,  who 
thought  himself  armed  with  sufficient  philosophy  to  think  of 
Rose  as  a  friend,  felt  his  panoply  falling  away  from  him, 
leaving  him  unhelmed,  unshielded,  and  weaponless.  Finding 
it  difficult  to  talk  with  ease,  he  turned  to  the  book  shelves, 
and  pretended  to  be  absorbed  by  their  contents.  He  took  up 
his  own  Shakespeare.  He  could  not  help  perceiving  that 
every  passage  he  had  read  and  admired  was  marked,  and  as 
he  opened  the  leaves,  rose  petals,  carefully  pressed,  dropped 
at  his  feet. 

"  Take  care  !"  said  Rose,  stooping  to  gather  the  faded  bl«s- 
soms.  As  she  lifted  her  head,  their  eyes  met  with  mutual 
embarrassment,  and  as  she  dropped  the  rose  leaves  between 
the  pages,  her  hand,  which  accidentally  touched  his,  trembled. 
This  did  not  seem  like  indifference.  Frank  looked  involun- 
tarily at  Mr.  Urvin,  expecting  to  see  a  jealous  frown,  but  on 
the  contrary,  he  wore  a  remarkably  benignant  expression, 
though  he  was  gazing  on  them. 

_  "  He  does  not  seem  to  be  jealous,"  thought  Frank.  "  I'll  try 
him  a  little  more.  I'll  ask  her  to  go  to  the  spring,  and  drink 
perchance  the  last  pure  draught  of  happiness  that  will  ever 
refresh  my  thirsty  spirit." 

The  serene  expression  of  Mr.  Urvin's  countenance  did  not 
change,  as  they  passed  out  together,  unless  it  beamed  with 
greater  satisfaction.  Bell  was  vexed  with  herself  at  the  em- 
barrassment she  experienced,  on  finding  herself  alone  with  Mr. 
Urvin.  She  thought  it  hardly  polite  in  Rose  to  leave  her, 
and  wondered  if  Rose  would  have  been  pleased,  if  she  had 
gone  with  Mr.  Urvin  in  the  same  manner. 
,  "  How  very  lovely  Rose  is  !"  said  she,  following  with  her 


BELL  AND   ROSE.  107 

eyes,  her  retreating  figure.  "  I  thought  her  merely  pretty 
when  I  first  saw  her — now,  she  is  really  beautiful." 

"  She  is  lovely,  and  what  is  more,  she  is  good  and  true," 
replied  Mr.  Urvin.  "  She  is  worthy  of  the  heart,  she  has 
won." 

"  I  believe  so.  I  have  always  thought,  always  said  so," 
cried  Bell,  speaking  with  warmth,  though  cold  shivers  crept 
through  her  frame.  "  I  congratulate  you  on  the  treasure  you 
have  gained.  I  hope — I  trust " 

She  thought  she  would  make  an  eloquent  speech,  but  her 
voice  grew  husky,  then  faltered  and  died  away.  Ashamed  of 
her  emotion,  and  terrified  at  the  construction  he  might  put 
upon  it,  she  rose  precipitately  to  leave  the  room,  when  he  in- 
tercepted her  flight. 

"  Why  do  you  congratulate  me  ?"  he  cried,  taking  her  hand 
and  leading  her  back  to  her  seat,  while  a  triumphant  smile 
played  upon  his  lips.  "  Look  at  me,  Bell,  read  the  language 
of  my  countenance  truly  and  honestly,  and  then,  if  you  have 
faith  in  my  integrity,  tell  me  if  you  believe  that  I  love  Rose 
Mayfield ;  that  it  is  of  my  own  heart  I  was  speaking ;  that  I 
have,  even  in  thought,  ever  rivalled  your  brother  ?" 

Bell  looked  up  one  moment — the  next,  her  head  was  bowed, 
and  her  cheeks,  forehead  and  neck,  were  suffused  with  crimson. 
Even  the  hand  which  he  held,  caught  a  roseate  tinge,  from 
the  sun-burst  of  happiness  that  illumined  her  heart. 

"  I  have  never  intended  to  trifle  with  your  feelings,  Bell," 
added  he,  after  a  pause  of  deep  emotion,  for  he  actually 
trembled  to  perceive  the  extent  of  his  own  overmastering 
influence.  "  I  have  withheld  the  expression  of  my  own,  in 
spite  of  almost  irresistible  temptations,  while  adversity  has 
been  testing  and  time  confirming  your  long  latent  virtues. 
fCven  from  the  first,  I  was  charmed  by  your  beauty,  and 
fascinated  by  the  strange  minglitog  of  artlessnoss  and  affecta- 
tion, of  simplicity  and  coquetry,  visible  in  /our  character. 
But  I  have  passed  the  heyday  of  youthful  romance,  and  could 
not  choose  as  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  a  mere  daughter  of  fashion, 
a  devotee  of  the  world.  I  resisted  the  spell,  though  I  still 
kept  within  the  sphere  of  the  enchantress.  It  was  not  till 
your  sudden  reverse  of  fortune,  that  I  knew  the  extent  of  my 
infatuation.  Ah !  little  did  you  imagine,  when  I  coldly 
counselled,  and  cautiously  directed  your  course  of  action, 
urging  you  with  the  sternness  of  a  stoic,  to  gird  yourself  for 
the  battle  of  life,  without  offering  to  guard  you  in  the  day  of 


108  BELL    AND  ROSE. 

conflict,  how  I  longed  to  fold  you  in  my  protecting  arms,  and 
make  my  bosom  your  shield  in  danger,  your  pillow  in  peace. 
But  I  saw  that  God  had  taken  you  by  the  hand,  to  lead  you 
through  the  refiner's  fire,  and  I  followed  His  steps,  trembling, 
lest  you  should  sink  in  the  flames  kindled  to  purify  your  soul. 
Many  a  time  have  I  been  tempted  to  speak  and  shorten  your 
day  of  trial ;  but  so  nobly,  so  heroically  did  you  bear  yourself, 
it  seemed  sacrilege  to  wish  to  turn  you  into  a  different  path, 
though  the  one  you  were  treading  might  be  strewed  with 
thorns.  Bell,  I  am  no  young,  boyish  wooer,  raving  of  love 
and  rapture.  I  am  a  man,  much  older  than  yourself,  and 
made  of  far  sterner  materials;  but  such  as  I  am,  I  love  you, 
with  a  love,  strong,  and  deep,  and  boundless  and  enduring." 

It  is  doubtful  whether  any  one  ever  felt  happier  than  Bell, 
while  listening  to  this  manly  avowal  of  all  she  ever  wished  to 
inspire.  But  the  fervour  of  his  manner  was  so  chastened  by 
solemnity,  so  subdued  by  tenderness,  that  she  wept,  even 
while  her  heart  was  aching  from  the  oppression  of  its  joy — we 
should  rather  say,  because  of  that  strange  fullness  and  oppres- 
sion. 

In  the  mean  time,  Frank  and  Kose  stood  by  the  spring, 
shaded  by  the  prettiest  little  arbour  in  the  world. 

"  Rose !"  exclaimed  Frank,  with  all  the  straightforwardness 
and  impetuosity  of  his  nature,  "only  tell  me  one  thing. 
Don't  trifle  with  me.  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense — for  I  can- 
not bear  it.  Are  you  going  to  marry  Mr.  Urvin  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  unless  he  asks  me,"  she  replied,  with  a 
provoking  smile,  "  but  tell  me  by  what  right  you  presume  to 
ask  me  such  unwarrantable  questions?"  When,  seeing  the 
tragic  expression  of  his  countenance,  she  added,  with  a  gentle, 
earnest  gravity — 

"  I  love  Mr.  Urvin  as  my  elder  brother,  esteem  him  as  my 
best  friend,  and  revere  him  as  my  generous,  my  noble  bene- 
factor. He  regards  me  with  a  kind  of  parental  interest,  as 
the  adopted  child  of  his  sister,  whom  he  most  dearly  loved. 
You  see  what  he  has  done  for  my  father.  This  beautiful  cot- 
tage, with  all  the  comforts  and  luxuries  it  contains,  he  pre- 
sented to  me,  that  my  father  might  receive  as  my  gift,  what 
he  would  not  accept  from  another  hand.  I  should  be  the 
most  ungrateful  of  human  beings,  if  I  did  not  revere  him 

next  to  my  God.  ^  But  as  for  love "  She  paused,  smiled, 

and  stooping  down,  scooped  some  of  the  gushing  water  in  the 


BELL   AND   ROSE.  109 

hollow  of  her  hand,  and  scattered  it  in  diamonds  over  his 
head. 

This  playful,  graceful  act  did  more  to  put  Frank  a.t  his  ease, 
than  a  multitude  of  words  could  do. 

"  One  question  more,"  cried  he,  emboldened  by  her  gayety. 
"  Could  you,  do  you,  will  you,  love  such  a  poor,  good-for- 
nothing  fellow  as  myself?  A  little  while  ago  I  could  have 
laid  a  fortune  at  your  feet — now  I  am  poor.  I  dare  not  ask 
you  to  share  my  poverty,  but  if  you  could  only  love  me  one 
millionth  part  as  much  as  I  love  you,  I  should  be  inspired  to 
do  the  work  of  a  thousand  giants.  I  would  be  a  second  Midas, 
and  transmute  everything  into  gold,  by  the  divine  alchemy  of 
love.  I  would  wait  and  serve  like  another  Jacob,  thinking 
the  days  hours,  and  the  hours  minutes,  for  the  exceeding  love 
I  bear  you." 

"  But,  supposing,  as  we  are  both  poor,  we  should  labour 
hand  in  hand,  and  not  wait  as  long  as  Jacob  did  !"  cried  Hose, 
with  a  most  beautiful  blush. 

"  Do  you  say  that,  Rose  ?"  exclaimed  Frank.  "  Heaven 
bless  you,  Rose.  I  don't  deserve — I  can  hardly  bear  so  much 
happiness  I" 

In  the  ecstasy  of  his  joy,  he  was  about  to  throw  his  arms 
around  her,  when  a  fresh  shower  of  diamonds  sparkled  in  his 
face  and  blinded  his  eyes. 

"  If  you  would  have  peace,  there  must  be  space  between 
us,"  said  she,  laughing  at  the  twinkling  of  his  eyes,  as  he  shook 
the  bright  drops  from  his  hair.  "  Come,  let  us  go  back  to  the 
house.  It  is  rude  in  me  to  leave  your  sister  so  long." 

"Tell  me  first,  if  I  must  be  a  farmer,  Rose." 

11  What  are  you  now  ?" 

"  A  lawyer  by  profession,  a  clerk  by  necessity." 

"  You  had  better  consult  Mr.  Urvin." 

"But,"  exclaimed  Frank  suddenly,  with  a  clouded  counte- 
nance, "  I  forgot  one  thing — you  are  rich — you  are  an  heiress. 
Mr.  Urvin  said  he  intended  to  settle  half  his  fortune  on  you." 

"  I  desire  no  fortune,"  interrupted  Rose,  "  I  would  not  accept 
it  if  it  were  offered.  I  am  richer  now  than  my  hopes,  as  afflu- 
ent as  my  wishes.  I  am  only  poor  in  words  to  speak  my 
heart's  immeasurable  content." 

And  she  yielded  her  hand  with  charming  grace  to  Frank, 
whose  usually  merry  eyes  actually  glistened  as  he  received  it. 

Does  any  one  care  to  hear  how  well  Farmer  May  field  looked, 
in  his  Sunday  clothes,  presiding  at  the  dinner  table,  and 


110  BELL   AND    ROSE. 

carving  the  roasted  turkey  with  his  strong  brown  hands? 
What  delicious  curds  and  cream  were  served  by  the  fair  hands 
of  Rose,  and  what  happy  faces  shone  around  that  simple, 
hospitable  board  ?  Perhaps  the  farmer  did  most  of  the  eating 
himself,  as  labour  creates  appetite  and  sentiment  destroys  it, 
but  no  one  cares  for  that. 

Does  any  one  care  to  know  how  Mrs.  Raymond  became 
reconciled  to  the  marriage  of  her  son  with  the  farmer's 
daughter?  and  how  she  exulted  in  securing,  at  last,  the  rich 
and  distinguished  Mr.  Urvin  as  her  son-in-law  ? 

There  is  something  so  repulsive  in  her  character,  we  would 
rather  say  nothing  more  about  her,  regretting  that  the'paradise 
of  Bell's  happy  home  should  be  marred  by  so  ungenial  an 
inmate. 

Mr.  Urvin,  with  a  delicacy  only  equalled  by  his  munificence, 
settled  the  fortune  on  Frank  he  had  intended  for  Rose,  thus 
enabling  him  to  return  to  the  profession  for  which  nature  had 
most  eminently  qualified  him. 

There  is  one  circumstance  connected  with  Mrs.  Raymond 
which  we  forgot  to  mention,  or  we  would  not  refer  to  her 
again. 

Every  Sunday,  Mr.  Urvin  invited  Farmer  Mayfield  to  dine 
with  him,  and  had  he  been  the  Chief  Magistrate  of  the  land, 
he  could  not  have  treated  him  with  more  respectful  attention. 
On  this  day,  Frank  and  Rose  were  also  regularly  invited  guests. 
It  was  a  happy  family  meeting,  but  the  farmer's  presence 
always  gave  Mrs.  Raymond  a  sick  headache,  and  she  was 
generally  obliged  to  keep  her  room,  and  this  necessity  never 
seemed  to  damp  the  spirits  of  the  household. 

Poor  Mrs.  Raymond ! 


THE 

LITTLE   BKOOM   BOY. 


..H 


is  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old, 
His  head  unmellowed,  but  his  judgment  ripe ; 
And  in  a  word  (for  far  behind  his  worth, 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow), 
He  is  complete  in  feature,  and  in  mind, 
With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman." — SHAKSPEARK. 

"  Innocence  unmoved 
At  a  false  accusation,  doth  the  more 
Confirm  itself ;  and  guilt  is  best  discovered 
By  its  own  fears." — NABB. 

"  You  seem  a  very  smart  little  boy,"  said  Mr.  Campbell, 
to  a  child  of  about  seven  years  of  age,  who  stood  on  the  steps 
before  him,  with  a  bundle  of  hearth-brooms,  much  larger  than 
himself,  swung  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  smart ;  I  made  these  brooms  myself," 
replied  the  boy,  with  such  downright  simplicity  and  truth  of 
expression,  that  the  gentleman  found  it  difficult  to  retain  his 
gravity.  He  bent  down,  took  one  of  the  brooms  from  the 
bundle,  and  examined  it  with  benevolent  attention.  It  was 
made  of  straw — simply  bound  together  with  twine — but  so 
neatly  and  compactly,  it  would  not  have  disgraced  the  craft 
of  an  older  and  more  experienced  workman. 

"  I  must  have  one  of  these,"  said  Mr.  Campbell,  putting 
some  bright  pieces  of  silver  in  the  hand  of  the  little  boy. 

"  This  is  too  much,  sir,"  replied  the  child,  lifting  his  clear 
questioning  eyes  to  the  face  of  Mr.  Campbell.  "  They  are 
only  a  dime  apiece." 

"  Keep  the  whole,"  cried  the  gentleman.  "  I  would  not 
make  one  for  twice  what  I  have  given  you." 

"  Oh  !  it's  so  easy,"  cried  the  child,  with  animation.  "You 
just  put  the  straws  so,  and  make  the  twine  go  in  and  out,  and 
in  and  out,  all  the  time." 

(Ill) 


112  THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY. 

The  chUd  was  very  coarsely,  but  cleanly  dressed.  His  little 
blue  jacket  was  patched  in  the  sleeves,  and  his  short  checked 
apron  made  "maist  as  good  as  new,"  by  the  addition  of  sundry 
brighter  coloured  morceaus  to  the  worn  and  faded  original. 
His  dress  bespoke  extreme  indigence,  but  it  was  respectable 
indigence,  unaccompanied  by  misery  or  degradation.  His  hair 
was  parted  smoothly  on  his  ingenuous  brow,  and  his  oval- 
formed  face  looked  fresh  and  fair  from  a  recent  ablution.  But 
what  particularly  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Campbell,  was 
the  beaming  intelligence  and  remarkable  candour  of  the  boy's 
countenance.  It  was  perfectly  radiant  with  good  humour,  and 
indicated  a  disposition  so  affectionate  and  confiding,  it  was  im- 
possible to  look  upon  him,  without  wishing  to  pass  the  hand 
caressingly  over  his  shining  dark  hair,  or  patting  his  clean, 
rosy,  dimpled  cheek. 

It  was  a  serene,  quiet,  golden  hour.  The  business  of  the 
day  was  over,  and  the  spirit  participated  in  the  sweet  repose 
of  the  mellow  sunset.  Had  the  child  accosted  Mr.  Campbell 
at  a  time  when  he  was  occupied  with  the  duties  of  his  profes- 
sion, he  might  have  given  him  a  very  different  reception ;  but 
just  then,  he  had  nothing  to  do.  He  was  seated  in  the  balcony, 
enjoying  the  coolness  of  the  twilight  breeze,  and  gazing  with 
dreamy  delight  on  the  rosy  clouds,  fringed  with  ermine,  that 
seemed  dipping  in  an  ocean  of  liquid  gold,  as  they  slowly  de- 
scended towards  the  horizon.  The  little  apparition,  that  sud- 
denly presented  itself  in  the  midst  of  such  gracious,  glorious 
influences,  was  greeted  with  a  benignant  welcome.  Mr.  Camp- 
bell was  fond  of  children,  and  his  manners  were  kind  and 
courteous.  The  boy  lingered,  as  if  unwilling  to  leave  one 
whom  he  did  not  hesitate  to  consider  his  friend,  when  a  vision 
appeared,  which  bound  him  to  the  spot,  as  by  the  spell  of 
fascination.  A  little  girl,  some  two  or  three  years  younger 
than  himself,  came  bounding  over  the  threshold,  and  running 
up  to  Mr.  Campbell,  jumped  into  his  lap,  and  entwined  her 
arms  round  his  neck. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  cried  she,  nestling  her  cherub  face  in  his  bosom, 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  1" 

It  was  the  first  time  the  boy  had  had  an  opportunity  of 
satisfying  his  love  of  the  beautiful,  in  animated  being.  Ever 
since  he  was  conscious  of  perception,  the  beauties  of  nature 
had  been  silently  but  powerfully  working  on  his  imagination ; 
but  here  was  the  beauty  of  life,  of  congenial  childhood,  so 
fair,  so  bright,  so  pure,  that  he  sighed  with  a  strange  feeling 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  113 

of  oppression  and  wonder.  He  remembered  a  little  sister  of 
bis  own,  who  bud  died  about  two  years  previous,  but,  like  him- 
self, she  had  always  been  clothed  in  coarse  and  unbecoming 
garments,  and  being  sickly  and  emaciated,  she  lacked  those 
childish  graces,  which  sometimes,  as  in  his  own  case,  triumph 
over  the  most  adverse  circumstances.  This  little  girl,  in  her 
white  muslin  robe,  fastened  at  the  shoulder  with  knots  of 
azure  ribbon,  coral  necklace  and  bracelets,  soft,  lustrous,  un- 
shorn, curling  hair,  pearly  white  complexion,  tinged  with  the 
faintest  rose  colour,  and  sweet,  hazel  eyes,  sparkling  like  dew- 
drops  in  the  starbeams,  seemed  the  realization  of  all  his  dreams 
of  God's  angels.  It  was  as  if  the  young  rose  he  had  seen 
blushing  silently  on  the  stalk,  had  suddenly  become  instinct 
with  soul,  and  breathed  forth  its  perfume,  in  a  voice  of  ex- 
quisite music. 

At  length  the  beautiful  eyes  of  the  child  turned  from  her 
father's  face,  and  rested  on  the  boy,  who  was  gazing  on  her 
with  such  an  intensity  of  admiration.  After  looking  at  him 
steadily  a  few  moments,  through  her  long,  falling  ringlets, 
she  slid  from  her  father's  lap,  and  went  up  close  to  the  spot 
where  he  stood. 

"  Little  boy,"  she  said,  leaning  forward  and  surveying  him 
gravely  and  earnestly  from  head  to  foot,  "you  are  pretty,  but 
your  coat  is  ugly.  I'll  ask  papa  to  buy  you  a  new  one." 

A  bright  blush  burned  on  the  cheek  of  the  boy,  as  she  thus 
addressed  him  ;  but  he  did  not  hang  his  head,  or  look  ashamed 
of  the  uyly  coat,  her  little  ladyship  so  frankly  condemned. 

"  I  shall  buy  one  myself,"  he  answered,  "  when  I've  sold 
brooms  enough." 

"  That's  right,  my  little  fellow,"  cried  Mr.  Campbell,  laugh- 
ing. "  I  like  your  spirit.  How  would  you  like  to  come  and 
live  with  me,  and  let  me  make  a  gentleman  of  you?" 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much,  indeed,  sir,"  answered  the 
boy,  unhesitatingly,  his  eye  flashing  up  with  surprising  intel- 
ligence. "  I'll  go  home  and  ask  mother  if  I  may  come." 

"  Well,"  continued  Mr.  Campbell,  laughing  still  more 
heartily  at  this  singular  little  specimen  of  humanity,  "you 
must  not  forget  it." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  child,  raising  his  bundle  of  brooms 
again  to  his  shoulder — and.  warned  by  the  gathering  shadows, 
he  turned  to  depart.  "No,  sir;  I  shan't  forget  it." 

With  a  low  bow,  and  a  flourish  of  his  poor  little  battered 
straw  hat  (an  accomplishment  his  mother  had  carefullly  taught 


114  THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY. 

him),  he  departed,  casting  many  a  lingering  look  towards  the 
little  girl,  whose  eye  followed  him  down  the  steps  and  into 
the  street  with  an  expression  of  mingled  admiration  and  pity. 

The  careless  words  of  the  gentleman,  forgotten  almost  as 
soon  as  uttered,  thrilled  through  the  spirit  of  the  boy,  pro- 
ducing, on  its  high-toned  chords,  a  long  and  deep  vibration. 
They  were  received  in  joy  and  hope  and  faith,  and  acted  upon 
in  simplicity,  godly  confidence,  and  religious  faith. 

About  a  fortnight  after  this  incident,  which  had  passed 
away  from  the  mind  of  Mr.  Campbell,  just  about  the  same 
hour,  while  he  was  seated  as  usual  in  the  shaded  balcony,  the 
figure  of  the  little  broom-boy  was  seen  trudging  along  the  side- 
walk, entering  the  gate,  and  ascendiag  the  steps  eagerly  and 
pantingly,  as  if  bent  on  some  important  business.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  marine  blue,  his  old  straw  hat  was 
replaced  by  one  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  manufacturer,  and 
a  little  bundle,  tied  up  in  a  neat  checked  handkerchief,  was 
suspended  on  his  left  arm.  Walking  straight  up  to  Mr.  Camp- 
bell, taking  off  his  hat,  and,  making  his  little  scrape  of  a  bow, 
he  looked  at  him  with  a  smiling,  triumphant  countenance, 
saying  : 

"  I've  come,  sir." 

"  So  I  see,  my  little  fellow,"  cried  Mr.  Campbell,  receiving 
him  with  a  kind  smile.  "  What  articles  have  you  for  sale  now 
in  that  nice  bundle  ?" 

"  These  are  my  clothes,  sir,"  replied  the  boy.  "  My  mother 
has  been  making  new  clothes  for  me,  besides  these  I  have  on." 

"  Why,  how  could  she  afford  to  fit  you  out  so  smartly  ?  I 
thought  you  had  to  make  brooms  for  a  living." 

"  So  I  do,  sir.  There's  nay  broom  money,  you  know,  that 
I've  been  saving.  Then  she  sold  some  hens  and  chickens — 
and  little  sister's  crib,  besides.  She's  dead,  and  don't  sleep 
in  it  any  more." 

The  boy  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and 
coughed,  to  clear  away  a  rising  huskiness  in  his  throat. 

"  But  what  makes  you  bring  your  clothes  with  you  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Campbell,  excessively  amused  and  interested  by  his  little 
companion,  "  WThat  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ?" 

"  Wear  them  while  you  are  making  a  gentleman  of  me. 
You  told  me  to  come  and  live  with  you,  sir,  and  I've  come." 

Mr.  Campbell  started.  His  light,  unmeaning  w^rds,  came 
back  to  his  remembrance,  and  filled  him  with  strange  embar- 
rassment. The  confiding  innocence  of  the  child  affected  him. 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM  BOY.  115 

The  trusting  faith  of  the  mother  rebuked  the  levity  which  had 
prompted  the  thoughtless  remark.  As  the  mother  of  Moses 
had  committed  her  boy,  in  a  frail  osier  cradle,  to  the  waters 
of  the  Nile,  trusting  in  the  God  of  Israel,  so  this  humble,  un- 
suspecting woman,  had  intrusted  her  child  to  a  stranger's 
keeping,  relying,  with  Scripture  simplicity,  on  his  honour  and 
truth.  She  had  probably  expended  all  her  scanty  means  to 
purchase  his  new  apparel.  He  could  imagine  with  what 
trembling  hands  she  had  tied  up  his  little  bundle — how  she 
smoothed  his  hair,  and  shaded  it  back  from  his  fair,  bold 
brow — how  she  kissed  his  blooming  check,  leaving  a  tear 
where  every  kiss  was  pressed — and  with  what  a  quivering  lip 
she  had  God  blessed  him,  and  told  him  to  be  a  good  boy.  He 
could  not  bear  to  say  to  the  earnest,  honest,  truthful  child, 
looking  so  eagerly  and  hopefully  in  his  face,  to  go  back  to  his 
mother  and  tell  her  it  was  all  nonsense — he  had  only  spoken 
in  jest.  He  had  no  son  of  his  own,  and  he  had  often  yearned 
for  one.  His  darling  Gabriella  was  lonely,  and  wanted  a  play- 
mate and  companion.  There  was  nothing  coarse  or  vulgar 
about  the  boy.  He  would  not  disgrace  a  gentleman's  house- 
hold. But  his  wife!  Ah!  there  was  the  obstacle.  What 
would  his  elegant,  fashionable,  and  aristocratic  wife  say  to  the 
adoption  of  this  plebeian  child?  And  what  could  he  do  if 
she  opposed  it  ?  While  she  appeared  soft,  indolent,  and  pas- 
sive, she  ruled  him  with  Eastern  despotism.  He  was  proud 
of  her  beauty,  proud  of  her  high  position  in  the  world  of 
fashion,  and  would  have  "  coined  his  blood  to  drachmas" 
sooner  than  have  refused  her  most  extravagant  demands.  Not 
knowing  what  to  say,  he  suddenly  asked  the  boy  his  name — 

"  Ellery  Gray,  sir;  but  everybody  calls  me  the  Little  Broom 
Boy." 

"  Why,  Ellery  Gray  is  a  very  good  name,  indeed,"  said 
Mr.  Campbell,  glad  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  tribe  of  Ben- 
jamin or  Levi.  The  voice  of  Gabriella,  sweet  as  a  singing 
bird's,  now  warbled  on  the  ear.  With  her  graceful,  bounding 
step — for  she  never  walked — she  came  in  sight,  all  in  white, 
adorned  with  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  glowing  coral  of  the 
ocean.  She  stopped  just  before  she  reached  her  father,  and 
gazed  with  delighted  countenance  on  Ellery,  whose  new  suit 
of  clothes  wonderfully  beautified  his  appearance. 

"  Here,  Gabriella,"  said  her  father,  "  let  me  introduce  you 
to  Master  Ellery  Gray.  How  would  you  like  to  have  him  stay 
and  live  with  us,  and  be  a  brother  of  yours  ?" 


116  THE   LITTLE   BROOM    BOY. 

"  Like  !  Oh,  papa  !"  cried  she,  clapping  her  hands,  with  a 
sweet,  wild  burst  of  laughter,  "  you  don't  know  how  much  I 
would  like  it !" 

"  Stay  here,  then,  and  entertain  him,  while  I  go  and  talk 
with  your  mother." 

What  passed  during  this  interview  it  is  unnecessary  to 
relate,  as  we  are  only  interested  in  the  result.  When  Mr. 
Campbell  returned  his  brow  was  somewhat  clouded  ;  but  taking 
Ellery  by  one  hand,  while  G-abriella  held  him  protectingly  by 
the  other,  he  led  him  into  the  drawing-room,  where  a  tall  and 
beautiful  lady,  very  richly  and  fashionably  attired,  half  reclined 
in  a  lanquid,  yet  graceful  manner,  on  a  luxurious  velvet  sofa. 
Nothing  could  be  more  elegant  or  indolent  than  her  whole 
appearance,  and  had  little  Ellery  ever  heard  or  read  of  Sultanas 
or  Enchantresses,  he  would  have  imagined  that  he  was  now 
gazing  on  one.  His  unaccustomed  eyes  were  actually  dazzled 
by  the  jewels  that  gleamed  amid  the  white  cloud  of  lace  around 
her  neck,  and  sparkled  on  her  snowy-white  hand.  He  looked 
as  if  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  the  noon-day  sun. 
Never  were  admiration  and  awe  more  vividly  expressed  than 
iu  the  honest,  ingenuous  eyes,  fixed  so  unrecedingly  upon  her. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  lady,  Ellery?''  asked  Mr. 
Campbell,  reading  his  admiring  countenance,  and  anticipating 
the  reply  he  would  make. 

"Think!"  repeated  Ellery,  with  a  bright  blush,  "I  don't 
know  what  to  think.  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  lady  in  the 
world  so  pretty." 

This  well-timed  and  perfectly  truthful  expression,  sealed  the 
destiny  of  Ellery  Gray.  The  vanity  of  the  lady  was  not  proof 
against  this  simple  homage.  The  superb  arch  of  her  brows 
was  instantaneously  lowered,  and  a  smile  wreathed  her  lip. 

"Mamma,"  said  Gabriella,  looking  patronizingly  at  the 
young  protege;  "This  is  Ellery— Ellery  Gray.  Isn't  he 
pretty,  mamma  ?  and  doesn't  he  look  nice  ?  May  he  not  stay 
and  live  with  us,  and  play  with  me  when  I'm  tired  of  being 
alone?" 

Mrs.  Campbell  was  vain  and  worldly,  but  not  haughty  or 
overbearing.  Constitutionally  indolent,  she  seldom  troubled 
herself  about  the  conduct  of  others,  if  it  did  not  interfere 
with  her  own.  When  her  husband  described  the  dilemma  in 
which  he  found  himself,  and  endeavoured  to  argue  away  her 
aristocratic  prejudices  against  the  child,  she  was3 as  much  dis- 
pleased as  she  thought  it  becoming  to  be,  for  she  expected  to 


TEE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  117 

see  a  coarse,  ill-bred,  overgrown  young  monster,  whose  vul- 
garity would  shock  her  refinement.  The  contrast  of  the  real 
•with  the  ideal,  pleased  her;  the  dazzling  effects  of  her  own 
charms  gratified  her  vanity,  and  it  was  always  less  trouble  to 
yield  than  to  resist.  To  Mr.  Campbell's  unspeakable  joy — • 
for  his  heart  was  drawn  more  and  more  towards  the  Little 
Broom  Boy — she  gave  a  languid  consent,  and  Ellery  Gray  was 
admitted  into  the  family  of  Mr.  Campbell. 

Mrs.  Gray,  the  mother  of  Ellery,  was  a  woman  of  strong, 
good  sense,  genuine  piety,  and  child-like  dependence  on  the 
especial  Providence  of  God.  She  believed  it  was  the  will  of 
the  Almighty,  that  Ellery  should  be  a  gentleman,  and  obedient 
to  that  will,  she  was  ready  to  sacrifice  every  selfish  considera- 
tion to  his  future  interest.  She  knew  Mr.  Campbell  well  by 
reputation — so  it  was  not  with  blind  trust  that  she  had  yielded 
up  her  son.  With  firm  resolution,  she  resisted  the  pleadings 
of  affection,  which  urged  her  to  seek  her  little  boy  in  his  new 
and  comparatively  magnificent  home.  He  was  permitted  to 
visit  her,  but,  with  rare  judgment,  she  forebore  to  obtrude  her- 
self into  the  presence  of  the  elegant  Mrs.  Campbell,  whose 
pride  was  thus  spared  a  shock,  which  would  have  been  fatal  to 
the  growing  interests  of  Ellery. 

Years  passed  on.  The  boy  grew  into  adolescence.  A  hardy 
plant,  transplanted  from  the  wilderness  of  life,  to  one  of  its 
green,  sunny  bowers,  he  had  a  vitality,  a  moral  vigour,  that 
resisted  the  enervating  influences  around  him.  The  early  prin- 
ciples of  piety  instilled  into  his  heart  by  his  strong-minded 
mother,  formed  a  basis  of  rock  to  his  character,  which  the 
winds  of  temptation  in  vain  assailed.  And  temptation  did 
beset  him,  on  every  side,  not  less  dangerous  because  lurking 
in  flowery  ambush.  His  gratitude  to  his  benefactor  was  only 
equalled  by  his  affection,  yet  with  all  his  gratitude  and  affec- 
tion, he  could  not  feel  that  respect  and  veneration,  that  confi- 
dence in  the  firmness  of  his  principles,  which  he  longed  to 
cherish.  He  saw  that  he  was  kind,  gentle,  and  affectionate; 
but  there  was  a  weakness  and  indecision  about  him,  that  kept 
one  trembling  for  his  integrity  and  honour.  He  condemned 
the  extravagance  of  his  wife,  yet  yielded  to  it  without  a  strug- 
gle. He  condemned  the  system  of  vanity  and  indulgence  in 
which  she  educated  the  young  Gabriella,  yet  he  had  not  the 
moral  courage  to  place  her  under  a  purer,  healthier  discipline. 
Young  as  Ellery  was,  he  felt  a  constant  struggle  with  judg- 
ment and  imagination,  principle  and  feeling.  With  his  exqui- 


""118  THE  LITTLE   BROOM   BOY. 

site  perception  of  the  beautiful,  he  could  not  but  admire  the  taste 
and  splendour  that  floated  like  a  golden  drapery  over  the  house- 
hold arrangements,  and  gave  such  an  air  of  enchantment  to  the 
elegant  mistress  of  the  establishment.  With  his  remarkable 
simplicity  and  love  of  truth  and  virtue,  he  could  not  but  be 
pained  at  witnessing  a  life  of  such  meretricious  display  and 
selfish  luxury.  Gabriella — sweet,  lovely,  fascinating  child  as 
she  was — was  made  to  form  a  part  of  the  glittering  show-pic- 
ture. Ellery  loved  to  gaze  upon  it,  for  it  was  beautiful  and 
fair  to  look  upon,  but  vanity  of  vanities  was  written  upon  the 
margin,  and  there  were  moments  when  all  its  brightness  van- 
ished. We  are  speaking  of  the  inner  thoughts — those  thoughts 
which  lie  fathoms  deep  in  the  heart — seldom  drawn  up  to  the 
surface,  but  keeping  the  fountain  fresh  and  pure.  In  the 
family,  in  society,  Ellery  appeared  a  bright,  ingenuous,  intel- 
ligent boy — modest,  without  being  humble,  self-reliant,  with- 
out being  presumptuous,  remembering  the  indigence  from 
which  he  had  been  raised,  only  to  bless  the  hand  which  had 
elevated  him. 

Mr.  Campbell  gave  him  every  advantage  of  education  short 
of  a  college  life.  He  was  himself  Cashier  of  a  Bank  in  the 
city  in  which  he  dwelt — an  office  which  he  had  held  for  many 
years — and  when  Ellery  was  old  enough,  he  gave  him  the 
situation  of  clerk  in  the  institution.  This  was  not  the  position 
to  which  his  boyish  ambition  had  aspired.  %  He  had  associated 
from  his  earliest  remembrance  with  his  idea  of  a  gentleman, 
something  great  and  glorious — influence,  command,  eloquence, 
and  the  full  expansion  of  intellect.  He  did  not  like  a  business 
life.  His  taste  shrank  from  all  dry  details — all  mere  matter-of- 
fact  occupations.  He  felt  the  flutter  of  his  growing  wings,  and 
longed  to  unfurl  them  in  the  sunlight  that  rested  like  a  glory- 
crown  on  the  hill  top  which  he  panted  to  ascend.  But  Mr. 
Campbell  told  him  that  he  needed  his  services ;  that  he  wished 
to  keep  him  near  his  person ;  that  he  felt  as  if  he  had  a  sheet 
anchor  of  integrity  and  truth  in  him,  on  which  he  could  lean, 
and  he  submitted  his  neck  to  the  yoke  with  graceful  submission. 
He  had  a  conviction  that  his  benefactor  did  need  him,  and  he 
kept  down  his  proud  aspirations,  and  hushed  all  selfish  re- 
pinings,  glad  to  make  an  acceptable  offaring  on  the  altar  of 
gratitude. 

Gabriella,  who  had  been  for  several  years  at  a  fashionable 
boarding  school,  that  she  might  receive  all  the  graces  of  educa- 
tion, now  returned  in  the  full,  sweet,  fresh  bloom  of  girlhood. 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  119 

When  a  child,  she  had  treated  Ellery  with  the  endearing 
familiarity  of  a  sister,  and  one  word  from  his  truthful  lips, 
cue  glance  from  his  rebuking  eye,  would  arrest  her  on  the 
verge  of  temptation  and  turn  her  into  the  path  of  right,  no 
matter  how  passion  might  misguide  or  folly  betray.  But  four 
years  of  absence  had  wrought  a  wonderful  change.  The  child 
was  grown  into  womanhood — the  boy  into  manhood.  The 
young  clerk  was  proud,  and  stood  aloof  from  the  lovely,  but 
now  capricious  and  flattered  beauty.  He  sighed  over  the 
sweet  remembrances  of  boyhood,  but  he  could  now  no  more 
approach  with  brotherly  endearments  the  beautiful  Gabriella, 
than  if  she  were  surrounded  by  silver  bars,  to  guard  her  from 
intrusion.  Though  still  of  the  same  household,  he  seemed  at 
an  immeasurable  distance  from  her,  and  the  atmosphere  around 
her  seemed  to  him  to  partake  of  the  dazzling  splendour  and 
dullness  of  a  polar  night.  It  is  true,  he  would  sometimes  catch 
a  glance  from  her  dark,  hazel  eyes,  full  of  gentle,  childish 
memories,  which  would  instantaneously  melt  the  icy  incrusta- 
tions of  formality,  and  his  heart  would  leap  in  his  bosom  like  a 
vernal  fountain.  But  if,  perchance,  he  again  sought  that  soft, 
subduing  eye-beam,  the  light  of  memory  appeared  quenched, 
and  the  orbs  it  so  beautifully  illumined,  shone  with  a  colder 
and  more  distant  radiance. 

One  evening,  he  remained  in  the  drawing-room,  after  the 
guests  had  departed,  and  the  family  retired.  He  was  seated 
in  a  recess  which  looked  into  the  garden,  and  whose  entrance 
was  shaded  by  flowering  shrubs.  He  had  found  a  book 
which  he  had  last  seen  in  the  hand  of  Gabriella,  and  whose 
margin  bore  the  traces  of  her  pencil.  His  attention  became 
so  riveted  to  its  contents,  that  he  was  not  aware  he  was  left 
sole  occupant  of  the  still  brilliantly  illuminated  apartment.  A 
very  light  footstep  entered,  but  he  did  not  hear  it.  The  slight 
shiver  of  the  rose  leaves,  whose  shadow  played  upon  his  brow, 
did  not  disturb  his  deep  abstraction  ;  but  when  a  sweet  voice 
uttered  the  name  of  "  Ellery,"  in  tones  resembling  the  well 
remembered  music  of  childhood,  he  started  so  suddenly  that 
the  book  fell  from  his  hand.  He  looked  up.  Gabriella  stood 
just  within  the  recess,  putting  back  with  one  hand  the  flowers, 
which  sent  out  a  cloud  of  fragrance  at  her  gentle  touch.  She 
was  dressed  in  white  muslin,  with  blue  sash  and  ribbons,  and 
he  thought  'of  the  moment  when  she  first  beamed  upon  his 
childish  vision,  in  the  same  celestial-looking  costume.  He 
tin  ught  of  himself  as  the  little  broom  boy,  whose  person  she 


120  THE  LITTLE   BROOM   BOY. 

had  approved,  while  she  had  condemned  his  ugly  coat.  Then 
he  recollected  how  they  had  played  together  as  children,  and 
how  gently  she  had  borne  his  mentorship,  and  how  often  she 
had  been  influenced  by  his  counsels.  The  immeasurable  space 
which  had  appeared  lately  to  separate  them,  seemed  suddenly 
annihilated,  and  they  stood  together  on  the  green  margin  of 
youth,  watching  the  sunbeams,  as  they  sparkled  on  the  stream 
of  life. 

"  Gabriella!"  he  exclaimed,  rising,  with  a  blush  of  delighted 
surprise,  "  dear  Gabriella  !" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  alone  since  her  return ; 
the  first  time  he  had  dared  to  use  the  endearing  epithet  once 
BO  familiar  to  his  lips.  She  did  not  appear  displeased  with  the 
freedom,  nor  did  she  immediately  withdraw  the  hand  he  had 
involuntarily  taken.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  a  lovely, 
happy  smile  played  upon  her  lips. 

"  I  came  for  my  book,"  said  she,  blushing  at  the  disin- 
genuousness  of  her  words  j  "  but  you  can  keep  it  if  you  like. 
And  yet  I  will  not  say  so.  The  book  is  rather  an  excuse  than 
a  cause.  I  wished  to  speak  with  you,  Ellery,  and  have  vainly 
sought  the  opportunity." 

"  With  me !"  he  exclaimed.  The  glow  of  pleasure  that 
irradiated  his  countenance,  was  like  the  bursting  of  the  sun- 
light on  the  water. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gabriella,  drawing  back  a  few  paces,  with  an 
air  of  modest  reserve;  "  but  it  is  not  of  myself  or  you,  that  I 
came  to  speak.  It  is  of  my  father.  Ellery,  he  is  so  changed. 
You,  that  have  been  with  him  all  the  time,  may  not  see  the 
transformation — but  I  do.  He  must  have  some  cause  of  care 
and  sorrow  unknown  to  the  world.  In  you,  he  has  unbounded 
confidence.  You  are  his  chosen  companion — his  familiar  friend. 
He  has  no  secret  from  you — I  know  he  has  not.  Tell  me  what 
it  is  that  is  making  furrows  on  a  brow,  as  yet  unwrinkled  by 
time  ?" 

"  Believe  me,  Gabriella — I  am  not  in  your  father's  con- 
fidence," he  answered  gravely,  almost  sadly. 

"  You  are  not  ?  If  you  assert  it,  it  must  be  so,  for  you  were 
always  truth  itself.  But  you  must  have  marked  the  change. 
You  do  not  accuse  me  of  vain  apprehensions." 

"  He  may  have  cause  of  disquietude,  but  I  have  never  ques- 
tioned him.  My  respect  has  ever  guarded  my  curiosity." 

"Curiosity!"  repeated  she,  with  impatience.  "You  can- 
not, must  not,  give  so  cold  a  signification  to  a  daughter's 


THE   LITTLE   BROOM   BOY.  121 

trembling  fears.  Oh  !  if  you  knew  half  the  love  I  bear  him 
— half  the  affection — the  tenderness  that  fills  my  heart — you 
would  not  wonder  that  I  suffer  at  the  possibility  of  misery 
impending  over  him." 

"Would  you  indeed  save  him  from  misery,  at  any  sacrifice?" 
cried  Ellery,  touched  and  charmed  by  this  unexpected  burst 
of  filial  enthusiasm. 

"  Would  I  ?"  repeated  she,  earnestly;  "  Oh  !  that  I  could  be 
put  to  the  test !" 

"  As  I  said  before,"  he  resumed,  "  I  am  not  in  your  father's 
confidence ;  but  I  have  seen  with  pain,  au  expression  of  grow- 
ing care  upon  his  countenance,  and  a  restlessness  of  manner, 
indicative  of  disquietude  within.  I  have  sometimes  imagined 
that  pecuniary  embarrassment  might  be  the  cause.  I  have 
thought,"  continued  he,  looking  round  him,  and  colouring  at 
his  own  boldness,  "  that  the  fountain  from  which  so  much 
luxury  was  flowing,  was  in  danger  of  being  drained." 

"Ah  !  is  it  indeed  so?"  cried  she,  giving  a  rapid  glance  at 
the  splendid  furniture  which  her  mother  had  recently  pur- 
chased, to  gratify  a  caprice  of  fashion — at  the  costly  pearls 
which  adorned  her  own  neck  and  arms — and  recalling  the 
thousand  expenditures  of  the  household.  "  Is  it  indeed  so  ? 

Yes,  we  are  too  lavish  and  extravagant.  My  mother "  she 

checked  herself  suddenly — then  added,  "  My  father  is  too 
liberal,  too  indulgent,  for  his  own  good.  He  never  repressed  a 
generous  impulse,  never  banished  a  supplicant  from  his  door." 

Ellery  could  not  but  remember  that  he  was  indebted  to  one 
of  these  generous  impulses  for  his  present  situation  in  the 
world,  and,  though  he  knew  he  was  now  repaying  his  bene- 
factor with  the  devotion  of  his  whole  life,  a  burning  suffusion 
dyed  his  face,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  obligation  weighed 
heavy  on  his  heart.  The  words  of  Gabriella,  though  not  so 
intended,  sounded  as  a  reproach. 

"  Your  father  is  generous,"  he  cried,  "  too  generous  and 
uncalculating  for  his  own  interest.  I  am  glad  that  you  are 
awakened  to  such  a  watchfulness  over  his  happiness.  Be  hence- 
forth the  guardian  angel  of  his  heart  and  home.  All  will  theu 
be  well.  Forgive  me,  Grabriella,  that  I  thought  you  were 
becoming  vain  and  heartless,  spoiled  by  indulgence,  and  in- 
toxicated by  adulation.  I  see  you  have  a  heart — a  true  and 
noble  one — too  true,  too  noble,  to  be  sacrificed  at  the  golden, 
shrine  of  wealth  and  fashion.  How  is  it,  with  such  feelings, 
such  genuine  sensibility  and  excellence  of  character,  you  can 
125 


122  THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY. 

ever  do  yourself  so  much  injustice  as  to  appear,  even  for  a 
moment,  to  be  the  artificial  and  worldly  being  you  really, 
though  secretly,  scorn  ?" 

"  There  spoke  Ellery  Gray,"  said  she,  with  a  laugh,  that 
grated  a  little  on  his  excited  nerves — "  the  boy-mentor  of  my 
childhood.  I  cannot  answer  you,  for  I  do  not  know  myself. 
I  believe,"  she  exclaimed,  her  eye  flashing  with  an  expression 
difficult  to  define,  "  that  I  am  a  two-fold  being,  the  lover  of 
nature  and  the  votary  of  art.  When  with  you  or  my  father, 
I  am  a  little  child  once  more,  such  as  you  first  saw  me,  when 
I  knew  no  higher  joy  than  to  be  cradled  in  his  arms.  When 
in  the  world,  as  the  gay  circle  which  surrounds  me  is  called, 
vanity  and  pride  luxuriate,  and  throw  into  shade  the  blossom- 
ings of  my  better  nature.  I  wish  I  had  never  been  taught  to 


Gabriella  sighed  and  looked  down.  Oh !  that  sigh  spoke 
volumes.  It  told  of  a  world-weary  spirit ;  weary,  though  its 
young  plumes  had  so  lately  been  unfurled.  It  told  of  heart- 
yearnings  that  must  seek  repression — of  "  immortal  longings," 
held  down  by  a  cold,  mortal  pressure.  Without  speaking 
again  she  turned  and  left  the  room ;  but  she  saw  the  look  with 
which  Ellery  followed  her,  and  it  made  her  sigh  again. 

The  next  morning  she  resolved  to  speak  to  her  father  before 
he  left  home  for  the  business  of  the  day,  and  learn  from  him, 
if  they,  the  luxuries  she  was  enjoying,  were  purchased  at  so 
dear  a  price  as  his  tranquillity.  She  would  far  rather  clothe 
herself  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  and  live  on  bread  and  water, 
than  fare  sumptuously,  and  be  arrayed  in  purple  and  fine 
linen,  at  the  expense  of  his  honour  and  peace.  So  she  told 
him,  with  tearful  eyes  and  embracing  arms. 

"  Foolish,  foolish  girl !"  he  cried,  looking  more  vexed  and 
angry  than  she  had  ever  seen  him  before.  "  Who  put  such 
wild  thoughts  into  your  head  ?  I  was  never  more  cheerful, 
more  happy.  Never  allude  to  the  possibility  of  such  a  state 
of  things  to  me  or  to  any  one.  Never,  I  say,  on  penalty  of 
my  displeasure.  No,  no,  Gabriella,  it  is  not  in  the  morning 
of  your  womanhood  that  I  would  abridge  you  of  one  pleasure, 
or  wish  you  to  deny  yourself  one  luxury  that  affection  can 
suggest  or  wealth  can  purchase." 

To  convince  her  of  the  truth  of  his  words,  he  brought  her 
that  evening  a  new  set  of  jewels,  and,  if  one  did  not  call  him 
cheerful,  it  was  because  he  was  gay. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Ellery,"  said  Gabriella,  as  she  glittered 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  123 

before  him,  a  moment,  in  her  new  ornaments.  "  My  father's 
coffers  are  far  from  being  drained.  Never  again  allude  to  such 
a  thing,  I  pray  you,  if  you  would  not  give  him  pain  and  dis- 
pleasure. The  cloud,  if  my  misgiving  heart  has  not  altogether 
created  it,  must  have  another  origin.  Oh  !  be  watchful, 
Ellery  ;  guard  every  avenue  to  evil.  Be  to  my  father  what  I 
would  have  been  had  heaven  made  me  a  boy." 

It  was  very  sweet  to  have  Gabriella  thus  address  him  by  the 
familiar  name  of  Ellery,  to  confide  to  him  her  filial  apprehen- 
sions, to  smile  upon  him.  so  kindly,  so  gratefully,  when  he 
promised  all  and  more  than  she  asked ;  and  he  wondered  that 
he  could  ever  have  thought  her  cold  and  capricious ;  but  when 
he  again  saw  her  the  centre  of  a  crowd  of  flatterers,  inhaling 
the  incense  of  adulation,  or  bestowing  on  others  that  enchant- 
ing smile,  which  almost  maddened  him  to  behold,  he  wondered 
equally  at  the  illusion  he  had  not  the  power  to  dispel,  and 
could  only  explain  the  seeming  Consistencies  of  her  character 
by  believing  her  own  words,  that  she  was  a  two-fold  being, 
whose  nature  his  single-heartedness  and  simplicity  could  never 
fathom.  He  never  dreamed  that  she  smiled  on  others,  lest 
the  world  should  believe  she  only  cared  to  smile  on  him — that 
she  appeared  capricious,  to  conceal  her  constancy — cold,  to 
hide  the  central  warmth  of  her  heart. 

The  promise  he  had  given  to  watch  over  her  father  he  faith- 
fully kept,  but  in  Mr.  Campbell  he  found  another  enigma 
more  painful  and  equally  perplexing.  The  temper,  once  so 
mild  and  uniform,  was  becoming  irritable  and  uncertain.  The 
affectionate  confidence  he  had  always  exhibited  to  Ellery, 
gradually  changed  to  distance  and  reserve;  so  imperceptible 
in  its  advances  that  he  felt  the  dullness  before  he  perceived 
the  twilight  shadow  stealing  over  his  heart. 

"  He  fears  the  poor  boy  whom  he  has  elevated  to  the  posi- 
tion of  a  gentleman,"  said  Ellery  to  himself,  "  may  dare  to 
raise  his  eyes  to  the  daughter  of  his  benefactor.  His  coldness 
is  intended  as  a  rebuke  to  my  presumption." 

These  thoughts  goaded  the  proud,  ingenuous  heart  of  the 
young  man,  and  the  consciousness  of  possessing  feelings  it  was 
his  duty  to  crush,  darkened  the  sunshine  of  his  conscience 
He  avoided,  more  and  more,  the  lovely,  capricious  being, 
whose  fascinations  he  felt  every  day  more  irresistible,  but  one 
glance  of  her  eye,  one  word  of  her  lip,  would  destroy  the  stern 
resolutions  which  he  had  passed  wakeful  hours  in  forming. 

He  was  roused  from  this  state  of  morbid  sensibility,  by  a 


124  THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY. 

thunder-stroke,  as  sudden  and  terrible  as  the  lightning's  bolt 
darting  from  the  cloudless  bosom  of  noonday. 

When  the  directors  of  the  bank  made  their  annual  exami- 
nation, there  was  a  deficiency  of  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars, 
entered  on  the  books,  of  which  the  young  clerk  could  render 
no  account.  The  character  of  Mr.  Campbell  for  integrity  and 
honour,  had  been  so  long  established,  it  seemed  impossible 
that  suspicion  should  rest  upon  him.  Ellery  Gray  was  young 
and  had  his  reputation  yet  to  make.  The  story  of  his  child- 
hood, the  manner  of  his  introduction  to  Mr.  Campbell,  the 
kindness,  the  munificence  of  that  gentleman  towards  him, 
were  well  known  to  the  public.  At  the  time  of  his  adoption 
the  name  of  the  little  broom  boy  was  on  everybody's  lips, 
and  many  laughed  at  Mr.  Campbell  for  his  quixotic  benevo- 
lence. That  a  youth  raised  from  indigence  and  obscurity,  and 
exposed  to  great  temptations,  in  a  situation  so  responsible  as 
the  one  in  which  he  was  pl^|d,  should  fall,  was  the  natural 
and  fatal  consequence  of  a  false  position. 

"  'Tis  dangerous  to  take  one  from  the  dregs  of  life,"  said 
one.  "  Education  may  polish  the  exterior,  but  the  internal 
corruption  will  still  remain." 

"  Gentle  born  as  well  as  gentle  bred,  for  me,"  said  another. 
"  No  chemic  art  can  remove  a  hereditary  taint  from  the  blood. 
I  never  liked  the  boy's  lofty  air  and  independent  manners. 
Well ;  he  has  a  trade  ready  for  the  penitentiary.  I  suppose 
he  has  not  forgotten  how  to  make  brooms." 

There  were  some  who  bore  testimony  to  the  excellence  and 
piety  of  his  mother's  character,  to  the  purity  and  nobleness  of 
his  own — but  to  the  astonishment  of  many,  Mr.  (Campbell  did 
not  attempt  to  vindicate  his  adopted  son  from  the  foul  crime 
imputed  to  him. 

"  I  did  love  and  trust  him,  as  my  own  son,"  he  exclaimed, 
in  grief,  rather  than  surprise  and  anger,  "  but  I  acknowledge 
that  I  have  been  cruelly,  ungratefully  deceived.  I  have  lately 
had  some  sad  misgivings,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  the  extent 
of  the  fraud.  I  should  not  have  exposed  him  to  temptations. 
But  alas,  whom  can  we  trust  ?  I  once  believed  him  the  very 
embodiment  of  truth  and  honour." 

Ellery  heard  this  jesntence  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  his 
benefactor,  and  there  were  those  present  who  saw  the  look 
which  answered  it,  who  said  they  never  should  forget  it  till 
their  dying  day. 

That  night,  when  Mr.  Campbell  entered  the  chamber  of 


THE   LITTLE  BROOM  BOY.  125 

Ellery,  he  found  him  with  his  face  bowed  upon  his  hands, 
and  his  hands  resting  on  the  table,  immovable  as  stone.  He 
went  up  to  him  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder — 

"  Ellery,"  said  he,  in  a  sorrowful  voice,  "  this  is  a  grievous 
affair;  I  am  sorry  for  you,  sorry  for  myself,  sorry  for  your 
poor  mother." 

Ellery  gave  a  convulsive  start,  and  shook  off,  with  a  writh- 
ing gesture,  the  hand  that  rested  on  his  shoulder.  Then 
raising  his  head,  he  fixed  his  inflamed  eyes  on  the  face  of  Mr. 
Campbell.  No  word  issued  from  his  wan  and  quivering  lips, 
but  there  was  many  a  one  written  in  that  burning,  steadfast 
gaze.  The  cheek  of  Mr.  Campbell  turned  of  ashy  paleness, 
beneath  its  scorching  beam. 

"  Are  you  indeed  sorry,  sir  ?"  at  length  uttered  the  youth, 
his  countenance  kindling  with  an  expression  of  lofty  disdain ; 
"  You,  who,  instead  of  being  my  champion,  confirm  the  igno- 
minious charge  !  You,  who,  iiQtead  of  vindicating  the  inno- 
cence so  foully  wronged,  join  the  ranks  of  my  accusers,  and 
strike  with  your  own  hand  the  cruellest,  deadliest  blow  to  my 
reputation  !" 

"  What  mean  you  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Campbell,  recoiling  and 
knitting  his  brows  fiercely.  "  What  would  you  dare  to  in- 
sinuate ?" 

"  I  insinuate  nothing,"  replied  Ellery.  "  I  assert  my  inno- 
cence— I  assert  my  conviction  that  it  is  known  to  yourself  and 
ought  to  be  proclaimed  to  the  whole  world — I  assert  that  I  am 
the  victim  of  an  unjust  accusation — that  I  am  made  the  shield 
of  an  unsuspected  criminal." 

"  I  understand  you,  young  man,"  cried  Mr.  Campbell,  the 
purple  hue  of  repressed  passion  settling  round  his  mouth.  "  I 
understand  your  covert  meaning.  Is  this  the  return  for  all 
my  favours,  this  the  gratitude  I  receive  for  long  years  of 
paternal  tenderness  and  care  ?  Yes  !  I  see  it  all.  You  would 
roll  the  burthen  of  your  guilt  on  me,  your  benefactor  and 
friend.  You  would  destroy  the  peace  of  my  family ;  the 
happiness  of  my  wife.  You  would  break,  with  ruthless  hand, 
the  heart  of  my  daughter." 

The  dark  fire  that  gleamed  in  the  young  man's  eye  was 
suddenly  quenched.  Again  he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
and  the  table  shook  with  the  paroxysm  of  his  agony.  Low, 
deep  sobs,  such  as  heave  the  breast  of  childhood,  but  seldom 
rend  the  bosom  of  man,  burst  forth,  mingled  with  ejaculations 
to  heaven. 


126  THE  LITTLE  BROOM  BOY. 

"God  forgive  me  if  I  wrong  another,"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
care  not  for  myself;  I  would  willingly  sacrifice  myself  for  her 
peace  ;  but  my  mother !  It  will  crush;  it  will  kill  her.  Well ! 
it  is  better  that  she  die ;  better  to  wear  the  crown  of  glory, 
than  bear  the  cross  of  shame.  From  the  height  of  Paradise 
she  can  look  down  on  the  dungeon  of  her  son." 

Mr.  Campbell  appeared  greatly  affected  by  this  outbreak  of 
filial  emotion.  He  covered  his  face  and  seemed  to  weep.  All 
traces  of  anger  had  fled. 

"I  would  willingly  give  this  right  hand,"  said  he,  "if  this 
had  not  happened.  If  I  had  the  means  to  pay  this  sum,  I 
would  do  it  in  one  moment,  to  save  you  from  disgrace.  There 
is  one  thing,  however,  I  can  do — I  can  assist  your  flight.  You 
can  go  beyond  the  limits  of  pursuit,  and  establish,  in  a  new 
country,  the  reputation  you  have  forfeited  here." 

"  Never,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  and  a  haughty  flush 
swept  over  his  cheek  and  brow,  "  never  will  I  thus  set  the 
seal  to  my  infamy.  I  will  not  fly — for  I  am  innocent — and 
the  world  will  one  day  know  it.  I  believe  there  are  justice 
and  retribution  even  on  earth.  God  is  righteous,  and  will  not 
forsake  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him.  I  will  trust  him.  I 
yielded  for  one  moment  to  the  weakness  of  nature,  but  I  am 
strong  now.  My  mother  will  not  believe  that  I  am  guilty.  I 
said  this  blow  would  kill  her — but  it  will  not.  Christianity 
will  support  her."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  added,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself  rather  than  to  Mr.  Campbell : 

"  If  Gabriella  should  doubt  my  integrity  !  If  her  confidence 
should  be  shaken  !  Can  she  resist  the  terrible  force  of  circum- 
stances, and  preserve  her  esteem  ?" 

"  And  what  is  my  daughter  to  you,  young  man  ?"  inter- 
rupted the  father,  sternly,  "that  you  dare  to  talk  of  her 
confidence  and  esteem  at  a  moment  when  her  very  name  should 
be  a  stranger  to  your  lips  ?" 

"  She  is  what  you  have  made  her  to  me — the  companion  of 
my  childhood ;  the  sister  of  my  soul ;  the  inspiration  of  my 
thoughts ;  the  idol  of  my  affections.  I  speak  of  her  now  as 
the  dying  man  speaks  of  the  treasure  he  is  about  to  leave  for 
ever,  in  the  freedom  and  honesty  of  the  death-hour.  I  loved 
her  as  a  child — I  loved, her  as  a  boy — I  adore  her  as  a  man.  In 
the  midst  of  vanity  and  frivolity,  I  have  seen  the  glory-gleams 
of  an  angelic  nature  struggling  through  the  mists  with  which 
folly  and  pride  have  sought  to  envelop  her.  I  never  pre- 
sumed on  her  affection ;  never  forgot  that  she  was  to  be  offered 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  127 

at  the  shrine  of  Mammon.  I  should  have  carried  the  secret 
to  my  grave  had  not  this  unmerited  obloquy  forced  the  reve- 
lation from  me — for  know,  sir,  it  is  for  her  sake  that  I  yield 
myself  a  passive  victim  to  the  fate  now  darkly  closing  around 
me." 

Mr.  Campbell  listened  in  silence  to  this  bold  confession,  and 
its  singular  close.  His  hand  was  pressed  upon  his  eyes,  his 
lips  firmly  closed,  and  the  veins  on  his  temples  dark  and  full. 

"  Have  you  ever  told  Gabriella  that  you  loved  her  ?"  said 
he,  rising  and  turning  towards  the  door. 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  It  is  well." 

The  door  slowly  opened,  closed  again,  the  echo  of  retreating 
footsteps  died  away,  and  Ellery  Gray  was  left  alone — with  his 
God. 

Mr.  Campbell  passed  on  to  his  chamber  by  a  back  passage, 
with  hurried  steps,  driven  along  by  wild,  stormy,  maddening 
thoughts.  He  held  the  lamp  in  his  left  hand,  while  his  right 
clenched  his  forehead,  in  the  vain  attempt  to  still  its  strong 
irregular  beatings.  He  entered  his  room  and  threw  himself 
on  a  sofa,  groaning  from  the  very  depths  of  his  soul. 

"  My  God  !"  he  cried,  "  I  cannot  bear  this.  I  cannot.  I 
shall  turn  a  maniac,  and  then — and  then — good  Heavens  ! 
what  then  ?" 

"Who's  there?"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up  as  the  door  sud- 
denly burst  open,  and  Gabriella,  with  her  hair  loose  and  dis- 
hevelled, her  cheek  white  as  alabaster,  and  a  dark  shadow 
under  her  wildly-flashing  eyes,  rushed  in,  and,  casting  herself 
at  her  father's  feet,  wrapped  her  arms  round  his  knees. 

"  What  is  this  they  tell  me,  father  ?"  she  cried,  resisting 
his  efforts  to  release  himself — "  that  Ellery  Gray  is  a  villain — 
that  he  has  committed  a  dreadful  crime — that  he  must  suffer 
the  felon's  doom  ?  Oh,  father !  you  know  that  this  is  false — 
you  know  this  cannot  be.  Oh  !  father,  save  him — save  him 
from  ignominy  and  punishment.  Bear  witness  to  his  good 
and  noble  character.  Bear  witness  to  his  truth  and  integrity. 
You  can — you  ought  to  do  it.  Father,  you  turn  away  your 
face — you  frown — you  struggle  to  shake  me  from  you.  You 
do  not  believe  him  guilty.  Look  at  me  and  tell  me  if  you 
doubt,  for  one  moment,  the  worth  and  honour  of  Ellery  Gray  Y' 

Thus  wildly  pleading,  and  closely  clinging,  Gabriella  lay  at 
her  father's  feet,  unconscious  of  the  energy  of  her  language, 
the  abandonment  of  her-attitude.  All  artificial  coldness  and 


128  THE  LITTLE   BROOM   BOY. 

conventional  restraint  was  swept  away  by  the  whirlwind  of 
excited  feeling.  She  would  as  soon  have  doubted  the  immu- 
tability of  the  word  of  God  as  the  excellence  of  Ellery  Gray. 
This  faith,  born  in  childhood,  had  strengthened  with  every 
passing  year.  In  all  her  caprices  and  follies  it  had  been  a 
talisman  to  preserve  her  from  absolute  evil.  His  dark,  clear, 
serious  eye,  was  to  her  spirit  what  the  glowing  pillar  was  to 
the  children  of  Israel — an  emblem  of  the  presence  of  God — 
and  it  guided  her,  even  when  she  seemed  most  devious  in  her 
course,  through  the  moral  wilderness  in  which  she  was  wander- 
ing. A  silent,  but  powerful  influence,  was  always  resting 
upon  her,  unacknowledged,  but  still  deeply  felt.  No  one 
dreamed  that  the  young  clerk  was  to  her  anything  but  an  ob- 
ject of  occasional  condescension  and  kindness  ;  but  conviction 
now  flashed  upon  the  father's  mind,  and  he  felt  the  error  he 
had  committed  in  placing  this  highly  endowed  and  singularly 
attractive  young  man  in  such  close  juxtaposition  with  his 
daughter. 

"  Father,  you  do  not  speak,"  continued  she,  with  more  im- 
passioned emphasis.  "  Tell  me  if  you  believe  him  guilty  ?" 

"  Gabriella,"  cried  her  father,  goaded  to  frenzy  by  her  re- 
iterated appeals,  and  seizing  both  her  hands  in  his  with  a  force 
that  made  them  ache,  "  Gabriella,  if  he  be  proved  innocent, 
the  world  may  believe  your  father  guilty.  The  shame,  the 
ignominy,  that  now  rest  on  him,  will  then,  doubtless,  fall  on  me ; 
but  I  swear  before  the  God  that  made  me,"  added  he,  raising 
his  eyes  with  a  look  that  made  her  shudder,  "  I  will  not  one 
moment  survive  the  loss  of  my  honour !  Good  Heavens  ! 
•what  have  I  done !  Gabriella,  Gabriella,  look  up  !  Almighty 
Father !  I  do  believe  I  have  killed  her." 

She  had  fallen  to  the  floor  with  leaden  weight,  and  lay  still 
and  white  as  marble.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  her  face, 
partly  covered  by  masses  of  dark-brown  hair,  was  like  the  face 
of  the  dead.  Raising  her  in  his  arms,  he  bore  her  to  a  win- 
dow, and,  throwing  up  the  sash,  suffered  the  night  air  to  blow 
in  upon  her  brow.  The  moon  was  just  rising  above  the  hill- 
tops, grand,  serene,  holy,  magnificent.  It  rose,  and  the  dark 
outline  above  which  it  beamed  turned  to  glistening  silver.  It 
rose,  and  the  waters  of  the  majestic  Ohio,  gliding  and  gleaming 
through  the  distant  foliage,  shone  and  sparkled  and  spread 
out  into  a  glassy  mirror,  in  which  another  moon  looked  up  and 
smiled  upon  the  moon  above  ;  and,  just  over  his  head,  a  faint 
beam,  struggling  through  the  curtained  window  of  Ellery's 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  129 

room,  mingled  with  the  splendour  of  the  firmament.  The 
white  glory  of  the  moonlight,  and  the  dim,  reddish  ray,  issuing 
from  that  window,  fell  together  on  the  pallid  face  of  Gabriella 
as  she  reclined  in  her  father's  arms.  He  trembled  as  he  looked 
upward,  almost  expecting  to  see  the  Deity  rending  those  beau- 
-teous  heavens  and  coming  down ;  those  dark,  silver-edged  hills, 
flowing  down  at  his  presence.  He  held  her  closely  to  his 
breast,  and  prayed  that  she  might  never  again  unclose  those 
eyes — never  look  upon  his  face  again.  But  she  did  unclose 
them — did  look  up  to  him — and,  as  the  mists  cleared  away 
from  her  vision,  she  read  that  in  his  countenance,  which  made 
cold  shudders  run  through  her  frame.  A  horrible  fear  took 
possession  of  her — a  fear  that  could  not  be  expressed — but 
from  whose  haunting  presence  she  could  never  be  free.  Her 
mind  seemed  endowed  with  a  sudden  and  terrible  clairvoyance. 
A  thousand  circumstances,  which  made  but  little  impression 
at  the  time,  came  back  to  her  memory  with  the  distinctness 
and  vividness  of  letters  of  fire.  The  experience  of  years  waa 
condensed  in  that  moment  of  time,  and  the  wither  of  age 
struck  her  youug  and  blooming  heart. 

As  the  father  and  daughter  thus  looked  into  each  other's 
faces,  in  the  clear,  pale  moonlight,  with  the  stilly  night  sigh- 
ing around  them,  there  was  a  mutual  revelation  of  thought 
which  both  would  have  given  worlds  never  to  have  made.  But 
eyes  are  the  windows  of  the  soul,  and  are  sometimes  transpa- 
rent as  crystal.  Gabriella  rose  from  her  father's  arms,  and, 
as  she  did  so,  the  clasp  of  her  bracelet  caught  in  the  sleeve  of 
his  coat,  arresting  her  motions.  He  stooped  to  release  it,  but, 
tearing  the  jewel  from  her  wrist,  she  cast  it  at  his  feet.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  reaction  of  feeling,  she  gathered  up  the  gem, 
and  gazed  earnestly  upon  it. 

"  .Father,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  what's  the  value  of 
this  ?  and  this,  too  ?"  extending  the  other  beautiful  arm,  on 
which  a  golden  circlet  was  shining.  "  Oh  !  I  have  jewels 
without  number — cannot  they  ransom  him  ?" 

"  Alas  !  they  would  be  but  drops  spilled  in  the  ocean." 

"  But  my  mother  !  I  will  go  to  my  mother.  She  has  jewels 
enough  to  ransom  a  king.  She  will  not,  cannot  withhold 
them." 

"All  your  mother's  gems  added  to  your  own  would  avail 
nothing.  Trouble  her  not.  It  would  be  worse  than  useless. 
You  cannot  save  Ellery,  and  let  me  tell  you,  Gabriella,  this 
strong  interest  in  the  young  man  is  uumaidenly  and  unbe- 


130  THE  LITTLE   BROOM   BOY. 

coming.     It  will  expose  you  to  censure,  and  me  to  reproach. 
Retire,  and  learn  more  modesty  and  self-control." 

He  spoke  bitterly,  severely.  It  was  with  a  great  effort  he 
did  so,  but,  after  the  first  cold,  measured  words,  the  others 
came  with  more  ease  and  arbitrariness  of  tone. 

" Retire,"  repeated  he ;  "I  would  be  alone." 

She  obeyed  him  in  silence,  and  he  was  left  alone. 

Ellery  had  not  moved  since  Mr.  Campbell  quitted  him.  He 
sat  in  the  chair  by  the  table,  his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  in 
the  dim  and  quivering  lamp-light.  He  knew  not  how  long  he 
had  thus  remained.  So  deep  was  his  abstraction,  he  was  not 
conscious  of  his  own  existence.  He  knew  not  whether  he  was 
waking  or  dreaming,  present  or  absent.  When  the  door  opened 
he  did  not  move,  though  his  spirit  sprang  forward  to  meet  the 
unseen  visitant.  He  felt  its  approach,  though  the  footsteps 
were  noiseless,  and,  through  his  covered  eyes,  he  seemed  to 
recognise  the  features  of  a  dream-angel,  such  as  often  beamed 
upon  his  nightly  visions.  A  warm  life-breath  floated  over  his 
cheek ;  a  tear,  a  warm,  gliding,  crystal  drop,  stole  slowly  over 
its  surface,  but  it  fell  not  from  his  own  eyes. 

"  Ellery,"  whispered  a  sad,  tremulous  voice,  "  I  believe  in 
your  innocence.  My  faith  in  you  shall  never  waver.  Fare- 
well. May  God  sustain  us  both." 

The  dream-angel  vanished,  but  the  tear  remained  on  his 
cheek — the  balm  in  his  heart.  He  felt  gentle  and  submissive 
as  a  weaned  child — they  might  carry  him  to  prison — they 
might  immure  him  in  the  dungeons  of  the  penitentiary — but 
they  could  not  shut  out  the  light  of  his  innocence,  the  glory 
of  her  faith  and  trust.  He  might  die,  and  fill  a  felon's  dis- 
honourable grave,  but  that  innocence  would  cast  a  halo  round 
its  darkness,  that  faith  and  trust  shed  their  glory  on  his 
memory. 

We  will  not  linger  on  these  painful  scenes  in  the  life  of 
Eilery  Gray.  He  was  tried,  condemned  on  circumstantial 
evidence,  and  sentenced  to  ten  years'  solitary  imprisonment 
within  the  walls  of  the  Penitentiary.  His  place  became  vacant 
in  the  office,  and  in  the  household — his  name  a  forbidden  sound. 
Another  clerk  filled  the  station  he  was  supposed  to  have  dis- 
honoured. Mr.  Campbell,  after  receiving  the  sympathy  and 
condqjence  of  his  friends,  for  the  ingratitude  and  turpitude  of 
his  unworthy  protege,  pursued  his  accustomed  course.  If  it 
was  remarked  that  his  face  was  pale,  and  his  brow  more  fur- 
rowed, it  was  imputed  to  the  anguish  of  betrayed  confidence 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM   BOY.  131 

and  outraged  affection.  Mrs.  Campbell  continued  her  course 
of  vanity  and  extravagance,  becoming,  if  possible,  more  vain 
and  extravagant  than  before.  The  disgrace  and  imprisonment 
of  Ellery  Gray,  disturbed  the  stream  of  her  life  about  as  long 
as  the  pebble  ruffles  the  current  into  which  it  fulls.  The  loss 
of  a  bracelet  or  a  ring  would  have  affected  her  far  more. 

And  Gabriella — did  she  resume  her  place  in  the  circles  of 
fashion,  forgetful  of  the  youth  who,  she  fully  believed,  was 
suffering  the  penalty  of  another's  crime?  Did  she  smile,  as 
she  had  too  often  done,  on  the  flattering  worldlings  who  sur- 
rounded her  ?  '  No  !  She  was  never  seen  to  smile,  and  from 
the  night  when  she  had  torn  the  bracelet  from  her  arm,  and 
dashed  it  at  her  father's  feet,  she  had  never  worn  jewelry  or 
ornament.  She  dressed  with  the  simplicity  of  a  nun,  and  no 
persuasion  or  reproaches  could  induce  her  to  change  her  attire. 
Mrs.  Campbell  was  too  vain  and  too  beautiful  herself,  not  to 
become  reconciled  to  a  course  which  threw  into  shade  the 
dazzling  youthful  .charms,  which  threatened  to  eclipse  her 
matured  loveliness.  Society  wondered  at  the  transformation, 
and  avenged  its  slighted  attractions  by  secret  slander,  or  open 
animadversion. 

There  was  but  one  place  in  the  world  that  now  possessed  a 
charm  for  the  saddened  spirit  of  Gabriella — and  that  was  the 
humble  home  of  Ellery  Gray.  She  had  made  a  vow  to  her- 
self to  minister,  with  a  daughter's  tenderness,  to  his  heart- 
stricken  mother,  and  she,  who  went  to  impart  consolation,  re- 
ceived it  in  her  own  bosom.  Mrs.  Gray  was  a  Christian. 
Gabriella,  though  the  daughter  of  a  Christian  land,  was  as 
ignorant  of  the  true  principles  of  Christianity,  as  though  born 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges.  Mrs.  Gray,  though  ignorant  in 
modern  literature,  was  "  mighty  in  the  Scriptures,"  and  it  was 
astonishing  with  what  eloquence  and  power  this  humble,  un- 
lettered woman,  explained  the  mystic  scroll  of  revelation, 
which  seemed  now  for  the  first  time  unrolled  to  the  eyes  of 
the  young  Gabriella.  It  was  not  alone  the  thought  of  Ellery 
languishing,  an  innocent  victim,  in  the  dungeon's  loneliness 
and  gloom — it  was  not  the  blighting  of  her  heart's  first  love 
— that  had  frozen  the  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  young  girl,  and 
changed  to  the  lily's  whiteness  the  roses  of  her  cheek.  It  was 
a  secret  that  never  could  be  revealed — a  cloud  that  never  apuld 
be  rolled  away — a  horror  of  thick  darkness,  that  never  could 
be  illumined  with  one  ray  of  hope.  She  stood  trembling  on 
the  brink  of  a  precipice,  without  one  arm  to  sustain,  one  pil- 


132  THE  LITTLE  BROOM  BOY. 

lar  on  which  to  lean,  looking  down  into  an  abyss  of  shame  and 
sorrow,  the  more  deep  and  dark,  because  an  impenetrable  cur- 
tain concealed  it  from  the  world.  In  this  indescribable  deso- 
lation of  the  soul,  religion  found  her,  and  throwing  arouud 
her  a  divine  arm,  bore  her  along  the  margin  of  the  gulf  with 
an  unfaltering  step,  directing  her  gaze  to  the  green  fields  and 
flowery  plains  beyond. 

The  first  year  of  Ellery's  imprisonment  drew  to  a  close. 
Mr.  Campbell,  who  had  never  been  prostrated  by  a  day's  sick- 
ness, was  attacked  by  strange  paroxysms,  which  alarmed  his 
family,  but  for  which  he  positively  refused  medical  advice  or 
assistance.  He  shrank,  too,  from  the  filial  cares  of  Gabriella, 
preferring  to  remain  alone,  in  a  darkened  chamber,  far  from 
the  sad  and  gentle  eyes  that  so  mournfully  regarded  him. 

When  the  next  annual  examination  of  the  Bank  was  made, 
the  astounding  report  was  again  circulated,  that  there  was  a 
deficiency  of  a  sum  even  greater  than  that  of  the  preceding 
year.  That  another  clerk  as  unprincipled  as  Ellery  should 
supply  his  place,  seemed  a  strange  coincidence.  This  young 
man  belonged  to  a  highly  respectable  family,  and  had  influen- 
tial friends  in  the  city.  The  irreproachable  character  of  Mr. 
Campbell  could  not  now  exempt  him  from  suspicion,  though 
its  birth  seemed  sacrilege.  The  unbounded  extravagance  of 
his  wife  had  long  been  a  subject  of  censure  and  curiosity,  for 
speculation  was  busy  as  to  the  source  whence  it  was  supplied. 

On  the  day  of  the  investigation,  Mr.  Campbell  was  too  ill 
to  leave  his  room — too  ill  to  admit  any  one  to  his  apartment. 
Messengers  were  despatched  with  the  promise  of  attending  to 
business  on  the  morrow — the  morrow  which  he  must  await  in 
fear  and  trembling.  Night  came  on.  He  would  allow  no 
lamp  to  illumine  his  apartment,  avowing  that  darkness  was 
more  tranquillizing  to  the  nerves.  The  moon  shone  in  with  a 
struggling  beam,  just  as  it  had  done  a  year  before.  The  bed 
stood  close  to  the  window,  so  that  by  leaning  towards  it,  he 
could  gather  the  curtains  in  his  hand,  and  folding  them  on  one 
side,  let  in  a  flood  of  radiance.  The  shadows  he  had  sought 
began  to  be  appalling. 

"  Once  more,"  he  cried,  shading  his  eyes  from  the  insuffera- 
-"*ble  splendour,  "once  more  I  am  passing  a  terrible,  an  awful 
crisif  Another  victim  may  be  sacrificed,  but  what  is  that  to 
the  preservation  of  an  unblemished  reputation?  After  the 
sacrifice  of  Ellery,  what  if  a  hecatomb  be  offered  up  ?  Him 
I  have  destroyed,  but  have  I  not  destroyed  my  own  soul  also  ? 


THE   LITTLE   BROOM  BOY  133 

If  I  have  doomed  him  to  the  torture  of  imprisonment,  have  I 
not  suffered  the  agonies  of  the  damned  as  an  atonement  ?  Is 
he  not  far  happier  in  his  lonely  cell,  than  I,  stretched  on  the 
burning  coals  of  remorse  ?  But  suppose  I  am  detected,  dis- 
graced, undone  ?" 

He  paused,  and  clenched  his  hands,  till  the  nails  cut  into 
the  shrinking  flesh. 

"  I  was  not  always  a  villain,"  he  continued.  "  I  had  a 
kind,  loving  heart.  I  loved  that  boy,  when  I  adopted  him  for 
my  own.  I  loved  him  till  I  wronged  him,  and  then  I  hated 
him  for  the  very  injuries  I  inflicted.  I  never  intended  to  de- 
fraud. I  never  thought  of  stealing.  I  meant  to  return  the 
money,  but  the  woman  whom  God  gave  me  as  a  curse,  kept 
tempting  me,  by  demanding  means  to  satisfy  her  insatiable 
desires.  Step  by  step,  I  have  been  plunging  deeper  and  deeper 
in  sin  and  iniquity,  till  I  must  go  down,  down,  into  the  bot- 
tomless pit.  I  meant  to  stop  after  the  ruin  of  Ellery,  but 
retrenchment  would  have  excited  suspicion.  I  was  .already 
lost  beyond  redemption.  For  one  crime,  the  son  of  the  morn- 
ing was  banished  from  heaven.  Oh  !  avenging  Deity,  can 
there  be  a  deeper  hell,  than  that  which  burns  iu  the  abyss  of 
a  guilty,  remorseless  soul  ?" 

While  he  thus  held  communion  with  his  tortured,  self-up- 
braiding spirit,  Gabriella  entered,  and  came  and  stood  at  hia 
bed-side. 

"Leave  me,"  cried  he  sternly.  "Did  I  not  forbid  all  in- 
trusion ?" 

"  Send  me  not  from  you,  father,  at  a  moment  like  this. 
Close  not  your  heart  to  sympathy  and  affection,  for  you  will 
have  need  of  them  to  comfort  and  sustain.  Oh  !  my  father, 
if  the  whole  world  forsake  you,  I  will  cling  to  you — even  in 
dishonour  and  shame  I  will  remember  that  I  am  your  daughter 
still." 

"  Speak,  and  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  he,  grasp- 
ing the  bed-post  with  both  hands,  a  cold  perspiration  bedewing 
his  forehead. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands,  "  I  thought 
I  was  very  calm — but  I  sink  on  the  threshold  of  duty.  I  have 
heard  words  not  intended  for  my  ear — words  which  I  came  to 
repeat,  but  theytlie  upon  my  lips.  Father,  the  doom  which 
has  fallen  on  JEUery  Gray,  hangs  over  you.  They  say  you 
cannot  escape  i£  Oh,  how  long  have  I  seen  its  shadow 
coming!" 


IS4 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM  BOY. 


"  They  !"  he  cried.  "  Who  dares  to  impeach  my  honour  ? 
My  character  is  above  reproach.  You,  who  never  doubted  the 
innocence  of  Ellery,  are  you  sacrilegious  enough  to  suspect 
your  own  father  of  crime  ?" 

"  Oh  !  it  is  in  vain  to  contend  with  the  Almighty/'  cried 
Gabriella,  sinking  on  her  knees,  and  clasping  her  hands  on 
her  bosoin.  "  His  hand  is  upon  you,  father,  and  you  must 
submit.  Just  one  year  ago,  in  this  very  room,  when  I  knelt 
at  your  feet  in  the  agony  of  a  breaking  heart,  by  your  words, 
your  looks,  I  discovered  your  terrible  secret.  The  evidence 
was  as  strong  to  me,  as  if  the  thunders  of  Heaven  revealed  it. 
Oh !  I  have  greatly  sinned  in  hiding  it  so  long  in  my  own 
soul.  I  ought  never  to  have  risen  from  your  feet,  till  you 
promised  to  do  justice  to  the  innocent,  suffering  in  your  stead. 
By  righteous  boldness,  I  might  have  arrested  you  in  your  dark 
path.  Nay,  my  father,  tear  not  your  hands  from  my  clinging 
grasp.  Turn  not  away  in  frantic  passion.  I  love  you  still — 
in  spite  of  the  past  and  the  present — in  view  of  the  dreadful 
future — I  love  you  still.  You  have  been  tempted,  you  have 
sinned;  but  though  man  may  condemn,  God  will  forgive. 
Oh  !  my  poor,  poor  father — resist  no  longer — confess  your 
guilt  before  man  and  God.  Humble  yourself  in  dust  and 
ashes  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  lie  there  till  drenched  in  a 
Saviour's  blood,  die  there  pleading  for  mercy — but  live  n6 
longer  in  sin  and  misery ;  tempt  not  the  wrath  of  the  Lamb 
of  God." 

«  Mr.  Campbell,  who  had  at  first  writhed  under  her  glance, 
and  struggled  to  free  himself  from  the  slender  hand  that 
grasped  his  own,  felt  himself  under  an  influence  too  mighty 
to  resist.  He  gazed  upon  his  young  daughter,  with  her  pale, 
beautiful  face,  lighted  up  with  such  a  holy  lustre,  transformed 
as  it  were  to  an  accusiag  angel,  bearing  in  one  hand  the 
broken  canons  of  the  God  he  had  defied,  and  pointing  with 
the  other  to  the  blood-stained  mount  where  mercy  sat  en- 
throned. Even  in  that  moment  of  agony  and  shame,  he  felt 
a  sensation  of  relief  that  his  crime  was  known ;  that  there 
was  no  more  necessity  of  struggling  to  conceal  it;  that  the 
terrible  battle  between  conscience  and  temptation  was  at  an 
end.  He  never  thought  of  denying  the  charge  those  pale, 
pure,  fearless  lips  had  uttered;  never  thought  of  breathing 
one  word  of  vindication,  or  in  extenuation  of  his  guilt.  But  he 
had  sworn  never  to  survive  detection,  and  resolved  to  embrace 
death,  rather  than  ignominy. 


THE   LITTLE   BROOM  BOY.  135 

"  Enough,  enough,  Gabriella,"  he  cried,  in  a  hollow,  altered 
voice.  "  I  yield  to  the  fate  I  can  no  longer  contend  with. 
But  leave  me  now  !  I  would  prepare  myself  to  meet  it  as  a 
man." 

As  he  raised  his  hand,  in  the  act  of  speaking,  the  pillow 
moved,  and  Gabriella  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pistol  beneath  it. 
She  remembered  the  vow  he  had  made,  not  to  survive  de- 
tection, and  divined  the  nature  of  the  preparation  to  which  he 
alluded.  With  a  shriek,  she  snatched  the  pistol  and  dashed 
it  through  the  window  to  the  ground,  shivering  the  glass  and 
scattering  it  like  diamonds  in  the  moonlight,  It  exploded  as 
it  fell,  and  at  the  same  moment,  Gabriella,  faint  and  sick, 
threw  her  arms  round  her  father's  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  You  will  not  put  yourself  beyond  the  reach  of  pardon  ?" 
she  sobbed.  "  You  will  not  inflict  so  awful  a  curse  on  your 
child?" 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  exclaimed  the  father,  folding  his  arms  round 
his  weeping  daughter;  ';Is  there,  can  there  be  pardon  for  a 
wretch  like  me?" 

Scalding  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  and  rained  on  Ga- 
briella's  cheek.  Long  and  bitterly  he  wept,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  every  tear  softened  the  iron  pressure  of  despair,  girdling  his 
heart,  The  awful  thought  of  self-murder  melted  away.  He 
would  surrender  himself  to  the  justice  of  man,  he  would  bow 
before  the  vengeance  of  the  Almighty.  He  deserved  to  suffer 
all  that  Omnipotence  could  inflict,  or  an  immortal  nature 
endure. 

The  morning  found  him  nerved  for  the  ordeal  through  which 
he  was  doomed  to  pass.  When  he  presented  himself  before 
his  judges,  and  made  a  full  and  voluntary  confession  of  his 
guilt,  indignation  for  his  crime  was  mitigated  by  the  depth  of 
his  penitence,  the  greatness  of  his  remorse.  Even  justice 
hesitated  to  crush  the  man,  who  laid  his  body  beneath  its 
chariot  wheels,  a  waiting  victim.  But  the  confession  once 
made,  the  strength  which  had  sustained  him  suddenly  failed. 
A  hot,  purple  flush,  dyed  the  deadly  pallor  of  his  cheek  and 
brow — and,  pressing  his  hand  to  his  head,  he  fell  back  in  a 
violent  spasm.  For  hours  he  passed  from  paroxysm  to  pa- 
roxysm, such  as  only  attacks  the  strong  frame  and  wrestling 
spirit.  When  they  subsided  he  seemed  weak  as  an  infant,  and 
the  grave,  instead  of  the  prison,  seemed  waiting  to  receive 
him.  But,  it  is  said  that  a  strong  will  can  make  death  itself 
its  vassal. 


136  THE   LITTLE  BROOM  BOY. 

Mr.  Campbell,  who  had  always  appeared  to  be  a  yielding 
man,  only  too  easily  swayed  by  the  will  of  others,  was  resolved 
to  put  into  execution  one  design.  As  a  dying  man  he  could 
claim  exemption  from  the  immediate  execution  of  justice;  but, 
before  passing  to  the  tribunal  of  the  eternal  judgment,  he  would 
drain  to  the  dregs  the  cup  of  earthly  humiliation.  He  would 
die  in  prison.  The  same  bed  of  straw  on  which  Ellery  had  so 
long  groaned,  should  receive  his  failing  limbs.  Through  the 
gloomy  grates,  which  had  barely  admitted  the  faint  sunbeams 
to  the  darkened  eye  of  the  young  man,  his  guilty  spirit  should 
struggle  upwards  to  the  great  Omniscient  Judge. 

It  was  vain  to  oppose  his  determination,  and,  as  strength 
returned  to  him  in  a  miraculous  manner,  even  the  physicians 
thought  it  best  to  yield  to  his  wishes.  He  was  placed  in  a 
carriage,  with  Gabriella  by  his  side,  who  was  resolved  that 
neither  imprisonment  nor  death  should  separate  her  from  him. 
Mrs.  Campbell,  at  the  first  intimation  of  their  disgrace,  had 
sought  refuge  with  some  wealthy  relatives,  never  dreaming 
that,  like  the  first  of  woman-kind,  she  had  yielded  herself  to 
the  delusions  of  the  arch-tempter,  and  then  dragged  her  hus- 
band into  transgression. 

They  arrived  at  the  prison  at  an  hour  when  the  convicts 
were  all  separate  in  their  solitary  cells.  Ellery  Gray  raised 
his  head  as  the  heavy  bolt  was  undrawn,  and  the  dark,  sunken 
eye,  in  which  the  light  of  hope  and  joy  had  long  been  quenched, 
turned  slowly  and  languidly  towards  the  door.  His  graceful 
form  was  disfigured  by  the  felon's  dress  and  badge  of  shame, 
his  luxuriant  locks  were  all  shorn,  and  his  complexion  white 
and  wan  as  the  flower  of  a  sunless  soil.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  black,  flowing  robe,  a  pale,  fair,  sad  face,  such  as  had 
often  in  dreams  illumined  his  dungeon's  gloom — and  he  passed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes,  believing  himself  the  sport  of  an  optical 
illusion.  Again  he  looked,  and  beheld  another  well-remem- 
bered figure,  not  firm  and  erect,  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  but 
bowed,  weak  and  tottering,  with  haggard  features,  and  dim, 
death-like  countenance.  Mr.  Campbell  staggered  forward,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  Ellery  thrown  his  arms  around  him. 
He  laid  him  gently  on  his  pallet  of  straw,  while  Gabriella 
supported  his  head  on  her  bosom. 

g£3'  Ellery,"  cried  he,  extending  his  trembling  hand,  "  this 
bed  of  straw  is  mine — this  grated  dungeon  is  mine — the  guilt, 
the  ignominy  are  mine.  I  have  dragged  myself  hither,  a  dying 


THE  LITTLE  BROOM  BOY.  137 

man,  to  acknowledge  my  transgressions  at  your  feet,  and  pray 
you  to  forgive  me,  in  the  name  of  a  merciful  Redeemer." 

Ellery  bowed  his  head  over  the  dying  man  and  wept.  No 
words  could  be  so  expressive  as  those  silent  tears.  The  peni- 
tent felt  them  to  his  heart's  core. 

"  Oh  !  my  son,"  he  cried,  "  son  of  my  adoption  and  early 
love !  Do  you  indeed  weep  for  me  ?  Am  I  ever  to  be  for- 
given ?  Ah  !  if  man  can  forgive,  may  not  the  great  God  have 
mercy  ?  Go  forth,  Ellery ;  go  from  this  prison-house  to  a 
world  waiting  to  redress  your  wrongs.  Go  in  the  glory  of 
martyrdom,  and  wear  the  crown  of  honour.  You  are  young. 
Long  years  of  happiness  are  in  store  for  you — for  you  and 
Gabriella.  But  oh,  my  children,  try  not  to  curse  my  memory." 

He  paused,  exhausted  by  the  efforts  he  had  made,  and  his 
heavy  eyelids  closed.  He  had  accomplished  the  purpose  for 
which  he  had  exerted  himself  with  superhuman  strength,  the 
energies  of  life  subsided,  and  nature  yielded  without  further 
struggle.  His  mind  began  to  wander,  his  pulse  to  fail,  and 
after  a  few  hours  of  alternate  delirium  and  stupor,  his  spirit 
passed  away. 

Ellery  Gray  was  restored  to  freedom  and  honour  \  the  pub- 
lic, anxious  to  make  restitution  for  the  unmerited  sufferings 
he  had  endured,  pressed  upon  his  acceptance  offices  of  emolu- 
ment and  distinction.  The  directors  of  the  bank  insisted 
upon  paying  him  the  year's  salary  he  had  lost  in  prison — and 
this  he  accepted  as  an  act  of  justice ;  all  other  pecuniary  gifts 
he  declined,  though  offered  in  the  most  munificent  manner. 

It  was  long  before  Gabriella  recovered  from  the  terrible 
shock  she  had  received.  But  it  was  her  father's  guilt  she  de- 
plored more  than  its  consequences,  and  believing  that  he  died 
repentant,  she  bowed  to  the  cross  and  endured  the  shame,  in 
the  spirit  of  her  divine  Master.  If  sympathy  and  tenderness 
could  embalm  a  wounded  heart,  hers  would  have  been  healed. 
And  it  was  healed.  Life  shared  with  Ellery  must  be  happy, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  sons  of  God  not  often  linked  with  the 
daughters  of  men.  They  were  happier  for  their  past  suffer- 
ings, for  they  were  better,  and  happiness  is  always  commensu- 
rate with  goodness. 

The  early  days  of  their  married  life  were  passed  in  retire- 
ment, for  Gabriella  shrunk  from  a  world  over  which  the  mem- 
ory of  her  father's  guilt  hung  a  darkening  shadow,  but  her 
nature  was  too  noble  not  to  discard  this  morbid  sensibility. 
She  urged  her  husband  to  return  to  society,  to  rekindle  the 
126 


138  THE  LITTLE   BROOM  EOT. 

glorious  ambition  of  his  youth,  and  give  to  mankind  the  influ- 
ence of  his  talents  and  his  virtues. 

So  they  removed  to  the  Queen  City  of  the  "West,  rising  in 
grace  and  magnificence  on  their  Ohio's  native  stream.  With 
her  own  mother  Gabriella  had  no  longer  any  association,  for 
their  paths  too  widely  diverged — but  the  mother  of  Ellery 
shared  their  home — her  piety,  the  rainbow  of  the  household, 
reminding  them  of  the  unfailing  promise  of  God. 

Though  Ellery  Gray  gained  influence  and  honour,  it  was  by 
the  exercise  of  domestic  and  social  virtues,  rather  than  the 
splendour  of  his  public  acts.  He  never  would  accept  any 
office  of  civil  or  political  distinction,  never  allow  himself  to  be 
made  the  idol  of  the  populace.  "  He  would  not  give  to  party 
what  was  meant  for  mankind." 

And  Gabriella  walked  by  his  side,  in  holy  simplicity  and 
godly  sincerity,  wearing  no  ornament  but  that  of  a  "  meek  and 
quiet  spirit,"  no  gem  but  the  "  pearl  of  great  price" — that 
pearl,  which  she  had  found  under  the  ocean  waves  of  a  great 


fe  ^' 


SELIM: 

AN  ORIENTAL  TALE. 


THE  events  recorded  in  the  following  tale,  may  be  found  in 
the  annals  of  a  reign  memorable  for  splendour  and  oppression, 
— the  reign  of  Amurath,  one  of  the  most  powerful  Sultans  of 
the  East.  The  usurper  and  not  the  inheritor  of  another's 
throne,  he  ruled  with  iron  despotism  over  the  subjects  to  whose 
obedience  he  felt  that  he  had  no  legitimate  claim ;  yet,  while 
others  crouched  beneath  his  tyranny  and  trembled  at  his  frown, 
his  own  heart  was  secretly  a  prey  to  inquietude  and  distrust. 
There  are  no  pangs  more  intense  than  those  occasioned  by  a 
consciousness  of  crime  and  a  dread  of  its  consequences.  Ainu- 
rath  knew  that  he  was  no  common  usurper — that  the  path 
which  led  to  his  present  grandeur  had  been  deluged  with  royal 
blood — and  in  the  midst  of  all  his  magnificence,  a  voice  was 
ever  sounding  in  his  ears,  that  royal  blood  would  one  day  cry 
aloud  for  vengeance,  and  be  heard. 

Superstition,  which  usually  holds  dark  companionship  with 
guilt,  and  which,  in  that  age  and  clime,  maintained  a  powerful 
sway  over  the  purest  minds,  added  to  the  depth  and  intensity 
of  these  emotions.  One  of  those  wild  dwellers  of  the  moun- 
tains, who  believe  themselves  gifted  with  inspiration  from 
Heaven,  or  who  impose  that  belief  on  the  credulity  of  others, 
had  first  kindled  the  fire  of  ambition  in  the  cold  breast  of  Amu- 
rath,  by  dim  prophecies  of  his  future  greatness.  The  cloud 
which  obscured  the  brilliant  unveiling  of  his  destiny,  was  the 
assertion  of  the  prophet,  that  while  the  remotest  branch  of  the 
royal  family  existed,  his  power  was  without  base  and  his  life 
without  security.  He  believed  that  he  had  exterminated  that 
ill-fated  race,  but  the  jewels  with  which  he  encircled  his  brow 
were  as  so  many  points  of  living  fire  to  his  brain.  The  fear 
that  some  scion  from  the  ancient  stock  still  nourished,  protected 

(139) 


140  SELIM. 

from  his  power,  flitted  like  a  phantom  in  his  path  and  shadowed 
the  possession1  of  his  glory. 

He  was  seated  one  evening  on  his  magnificent  divan,  with 
a  countenance  darkened  by  more  than  its  wonted  expression 
of  care  and  apprehension.  Selim,  his  favourite  and  prime 
minister,  stood  before  him,  holding  in  his  hand  an  unfolded 
letter,  whose  contents  he  had  just  perused,  and  upon  which  he 
still  bent  a  stern  and  steadfast  gaze. 

"  Kuowest  thou  whose  hand  has  traced  those  characters  ?" 
exclaimed  the  Sultan,  breaking  the  ominous  silence  while  he 
in  vain  endeavoured  to  master  its  inquietude. 

Selim  lifted  his  head  from  the  bending  position  it  had  as- 
sumed, and  met  the  keen,  searching  glance  of  the  Sultan,  with 
one  irresolute  and  troubled.  At  length  his  eye  became  steady, 
while  it  kindled  into  an  expression  of  moral  sublimity,  and 
though  his  lips  quivered  with  indefinable  emotion,  he  answered 
in  unfaltering  accents, 

"I  do." 

For  a  moment,  Amurath  was  silent,  for  there  is  a  power  in 
intellect  proudly  resting  on  its  strength  for  support,  unaided 
and  alone,  to  whose  sovereignty  the  haughtiest  despot  is  com- 
pelled to  bow.  But  the  momentary  awe  was  succeeded  by  a 
gust  of  stormy  passion. 

"  Ha  !  darest  thou  thus  avow  thy  league  with  treachery  ? 
Thou,  whom  I  have  taken  to  my  bosom,  whom  I  have  drawn 
near  my  throne,  and  exalted  even  to  my  right  hand  ?  Tell  me 
the  name  of  him  who  has  penned  this  seditious  scrawl,  or  by 
the  sword  of  the  prophet,  every  drop  of  thy  false  heart's  blood 
shall  be  spilled  to  expiate  thy  crime." 

"  I  have  formed  no  league  with  treason,"  exclaimed  the  un- 
daunted Selirn.  "  Still  true  in  my  allegiance  to  my  royal 
master,  I  boldly  assert  my  right  to  that  confidence  which  I 
have  never  justly  forfeited.  Drain  the  last  drop,  if  it  be  thy 
sovereign  will,  from  this  faithful  heart,  and  in  my  dying  agoniea 
I  will  only  remember  that  thou  wert  once  just  to  thyself  and 
me." 

"  I  demand  the  proof  of  thy  fidelity,"  repeated  the  Sultan 
in  a  calmer  tone,  his  wrath  beginning  to  yield  to  the  over- 
mastering influence  of  his  favourite.  "  Tell  me  the  author  of 
those  fatal  lines." 

Selim  answered  not,  but  bending  one  knee  to  the  ground, 
bowed  his  head  in  the  attitude  of  oriental  humility. 

"  Commander  of  the  faithful !     Bid  me  not  expose  an  un- 


SELIM.  141 

fortunate  and  misguided  being  to  the  fate  which  he  merits.  I 
once  knew  him  who  has  thus  clandestinely  intruded  himself 
on  thy  notice,  but  years  have  passed  since  we  have  met,  and 
every  bond  which  once  united  us  has  long  been  broken.  Be- 
lieve me,  sire,  it  is  not  the  discovery  of  an  obscure  individual, 
that  can  insure  safety  to  thyself  or  security  to  thy  power. 
There  is  a  powerful  existing  party  in  favour  of  the  fallen  dy- 
nasty, and  were  it  once  known  that  an  offspring  of  that  race 
was  still  left  behind,  it  would  be  the  signal  for  anarchy  and 
blood.  Destroy  this  letter;  its  contents  are  safe  in  my  bosom. 
My  life  shall  be  the  pledge  of  my  fidelity.  It  is  in  thy  hands. 
I  will  not  redeem  it  by  the  sacrifice  of  another,  even  to  obey 
the  mandate  of  my  sovereign." 

"  Take  back  thy  pledge,"  replied  the  Sultan,  "  and  hug  thy 
secret  to  thy  breast,  but  never  shall  thy  nuptials  be  celebrated 
with  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Ibrahim,  till  thou  hast  un- 
ravelled this  dark  conspiracy,  and  discovered  the  pretended 
offspring  of  that  fallen  race,  which  was  created  only  to  serve 
as  the  footstool  of  my  glory.  The  morrow  was  to  have  been 
gilded  by  the  pomp  of  thy  espousals,  but  never  shall  that  sun 
rise  which  shall  illuminate  the  hymeneal  rite,  till  thou  hast 
rolled  away  this  shadow  from  thy  name,  and  fulfilled  the  com- 
mands of  thy  insulted  lord." 

Selim  found  himself  alone.  But  before  we  penetrate  into 
the  recesses  of  his  soul,  agitated  as  it  now  is  with  contending 
passions,  we  will  give  an  explanation  of  the  preceding  scene. 

Amurath  had  intercepted  an  anonymous  letter  to  Selim, 
whose  contents  were  calculated  to  awaken  the  strangest  sus- 
picions and  the  darkest  forebodings.  The  language  of  this 
epistle  was  bold  and  eloquent.  It  called  upon  Selim  to  unite 
himself  to  a  band  which  was  leagued  to  restore  the  ancient 
honours  of  the  throne.  It  spoke  of  the  existence  of  a  princess, 
a  daughter  of  the  murdered  Sultan,  who  had  been  sheltered 
since  infancy  from  the  power  of  the  usurper,  and  whom  they 
had  sworn  to  protect  with  their  blood.  Selim  recogrfised  in 
this  daring  appeal  the  characters  of  his  eldest  brother,  who, 
scorning  the  restraints  of  the  paternal  roof,  and  obeying  the 
impulses  of  bis  own  wild  spirit,  had  for  many  years  been  an 
alien  from  his  home.  He  had  cherished  for  this  brother  an 
affection  more  than  fraternal.  It  was  romantic,  enthusiastic, 
and  in  proportion  to  the  ardour  of  his  attachment  was  the 
bitterness  of  sorrow  which  he  felt  for  his  desertion.  No 
longer  interested  in  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  he  sought  the 


142  SELIM. 

precincts  of  the  court,  and  the  favourite  of  nature  soon  became 
the  idol  of  fortune.  He  obtained  the  unbounded  confidence 
of  the  Sultan,  the  highest  honours  royal  favour  could  bestow, 
and,  more  than  all,  the  love  of  Zerah,  the  beautiful  daughter 
of  Ibrahim.  He  had  that  evening  entered  the  presence  of 
his  sovereign,  rich  in  the  possession  of  all  that  grandeur  can 
impart,  and  in  the  reversion  of  all  that  hope  can  offer.  He 
now  stood  desolate  and  alone,  conscious  of  the  abyss  which 
yawned  before  him,  for  he  knew  but  too  well,  that  the  wrath 
of  sovereignty  succeeding  its  smile,  was  the  thunderbolt  dart- 
ing from  the  noonday  sky. 

He  might  have  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  bold  conspirator, 
who  had  perilled  his  life  and  fame ;  but  his  truth-telling  lips 
refused  to  sanction  even  an  implied  deceit.  He  had  pledged 
his  fidelity  to  Amurath, — he  was  bound  to  him  by  every  tie 
of  gratitude  and  honour — ties  indissolubly  strong.  He  was 
united  to  his  brother  by  the  holy  bond  of  fraternity — to  Zerah, 
the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  confiding  Zerah,  by  all  those  hallowed 
and  imperishable  sympathies  which  God  and  Nature  have  created 
and  entwined  with  the  very  life-chords  of  our  existence.  Could 
he  throw  off  his  allegiance  to  the  ruthless  usurper,  yet  liberal 
benefactor,  who  had  elevated  him  to  his  present  altitude  of 
greatness,  and  brand  himself  with  the  name  of  traitor  and  in- 
grate  ?  Never  !  Better  to  die  with  an  unblemished  fame,  than 
live  to  bear  a  stigma  so  degrading.  Could  he  sacrifice  his 
brother  to  the  excited  vengeance  of  Amurath,  who  would 
search  through  his  kingdom  to  discover  the  place  of  his  retreat, 
were  he  once  assured  of  his  rebellious  purposes  ?  Never  !  Nature 
would  disown  the  monster  who  thus  violated  her  sacred  law. 
Could  he  persist  in  his  present  course,  and  wound  by  his  de- 
sertion that  tender  and  innocent  heart  which  beat  to  adore 
him  ?  To  this  there  was  but  one  reply,  involving  life  or  death. 

These  reflections  pursued  him  at  the  midnight  hour,  while 
he  wandered  in  a  garden,  which  the  liberality  of  nature  and 
the  splendour  of  art  had  embellished  with  every  charm.  Groves 
of  orange  trees,  covered  with  their  sweet,  waxen,  white  blos- 
soms, filled  the  air  with  that  sweet,  delicious  fragrance,  which 
reminds  one  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  moral  and  spiritual 
•world.  Fountains  of  the  purest  water  tossed  their  silvery 
foam  to  the  moon's  glancing  rays,  or  flowed  on  in  marble 
channels,  with  low  murmuring  melody,  through  bowers  of  dark 
luxuriance,  till  their  sound  died  away  in  music  on  the  ear. 
It  was  a  night  of  indescribable  splendour.  The  moon  shone 


SELIM.  143 

with  that  soft,  pearl-like  lustre  which  is  only  known  in  oriental 
climes,  while,  remote  from  the  halo  of  light  which  surrounded 
her  throne,  and  over  the  deep  dark  blue  of  a  midnight  firma- 
ment, the  stars  were  scattered  like  so  many  living  diamonds, 
concentrating  their  rays  in  one  flood  of  light,  yet  each  shining 
distinctly  in  its  own  individual  glory.  Selim  felt,  for  a  moment, 
calmed  and  solemnized  before  the  majesty  of  creation.  Who 
has  not  felt  the  influence  of  night?  Night!  grand,  silent, 
religious  night !  It  is  invested  with  an  unapproachable  mag- 
nificence, a  shadoVed  splendour,  more  beautiful  and  sublime 
than  the  unveiled  blaze  of  day.  We  feel  as  if  we  had  entered 
the  inner  temple  of  Nature,  and  shared  in  the  mystery  of  the 
divine  repose.  The  soul,  disturbed  by  earth-born  cares, 
agonized  by  earthly  conflicts,  discards  its  cares  and  forgets  its 
sonflicts  before  the  altar  of  Omnipotence,  and,  conscious  of  its 
own  immortality,  identifies  itself  with  the  Divinity  breathing 
around.  Such  thoughts  as  these  awed  the  tempestuous  passions 
which  raged  in  the  breast  of  Selim,  into  rest.  He  threw  him- 
self upon  a  flight  of  marble  steps,  and,  reclining  his  burning 
temples  against  the  cold,  smooth  surface,  remained  as  motion- 
less as  the  pillar  upon  which  he  leaned.  He  lay,  with  his  eyes 
intensely  fixed  upon  the  illimitable  vault  above,  unconscious 
of  everything  in  the  external  world,  when  he  perceived  the 
light  darkening  around  him,  though  no  cloud  floated  over  the 
ethereal  blue.  Half  rising  from  his  recumbent  position,  he 
beheld  a  majestic  figure  standing  before  him  in  dark  relief 
against  the  heavens  on  which  its  lineaments  were  defined. 
Selim  stood  erect,  and  grasping  his  scimitar  with  one  hand, 
he  repelled  with  the  other  the  approach  of  the  mysterious 
visitant. 

"  Selim !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  in  the  deep  tones  of  sup- 
pressed emotion,  and  in  an  instant  the  hand  which  grasped  the 
scimitar  relaxed  its  hold.  Time  may  dim  the  recollection  of 
familiar  features,  or  change  the  form  whose  traits  we  have 
hoarded  in  our  memory,  but  the  voice — there  is  a  magic  in 
the  voice.  It  steals  over  our  souls  as  the  wind  floats  over  the 
chords  of  some  neglected  instrument,  and  the  music  of  remem- 
brance awakens  as  it  breathes.  The  stranger  opened  his  arms, 
and  Selim  fell  upon  his  brother's  neck  and  wept.  Forgotten 
were  desertion  and  wrongs,  danger  and  fears.  Every  other 
feeling  was  absorbed  in  that  of  fraternal  love.  He  saw  only 
the  long-estranged  companion  of  his  childhood — he  felt  only 
the  tears  of  a  brother  bedewing  his  cheeks.  But  the  tears  of 


:":*: 

144  SELIM. 

man  are  few,  and  pride  soon  conquers  the  weakness  of  nature. 
Solyman,  such  was  the  name  of  the  wanderer,  unfolded  to  his 
brother  the  purposes  to  which  all  his  energies  were  devoted, 
adjured  him  to  break  the  gilded  chains  which  linked  him  to 
a  tyrant's  destiny,  and  asserted  the  claims  of  the  orphan 
princess  to  loyalty  and  protection.  Selim  was  immovable. 
Amurath — cruel,  ambitious,  and  despotic — was  still  his  gene- 
rous, and,  till  now,  confiding  master.  He  vowed  never  to 
betray  his  brother,  but  that  he  would  devote  his  life  to  the 
service  of  his  sovereign. 

"But  where,"  he  cried,  "is  the  unfortunate  princess  who 
survives  the  ruin  of  her  race  ?" 

"  The  secret  is  buried  in  my  bosom,"  replied  Solyman, 
"  close  as  the  gems  in  the  casket  which  contains  the  testimonies 
of  her  birth.  That  casket  was  committed  to  my  care  by  the 
dying  loyalist,  who  snatched  her,  an  infant,  from  destruction, 
and  placed  her  where  the  hand  of  the  destroyer  reached  her 
not.  Even  he,  who  fosters  her  in  his  arms,  and  shields  her 
with  parental  care,  knows  not  the  treasure  he  wears  in  his 
bosom.  Selim,  I  have  that  in  my  power  which  thou  wilt  value 
more  than  all  that  Amurath  in  the  prodigality  of  his  favours 
can  bestow.  Join  but  our  faithful  and  devoted  band,  aid  us 
in  protecting  this  last  remnant  of  the  imperial  line,  and  thou 
shalt  be  rewarded  by  the  possession  of  the  royal  beauty." 

"  Talk  not  of  love  and  beauty,"  exclaimed  Selim,  sternly. 
"  Thou  knowest  not  what  thou  utterest." 

"  1  know  not !"  repeated  the  wanderer.  "  Thinkest  thou 
that  my  heart,  because  it  scorned  the  cold  restraints  of  the 
world,  is  dead  to  human  feeling  ?  I  roamed  from  scenes  of 
heartless  splendour,  but  another  was  the  companion  of  my 
wanderings.  An  angel  spirit  in  woman's  form  has  ever  fol- 
lowed my  devious  path,  smoothed  its  roughness,  and  gilded  its 
gloom.  Go  with  me  to  yon  mountain  cave  and  see  the  fair 
flower  which  is  sheltered  there,  blooming  in  loveliness  alone 
for  me,  and  then  tell  me,  if  thou  canst,  that  I  know  not  of 
love  and  beauty." 

"  Thou  dost  not  understand  me,"  replied  Selim,  with  bitter- 
ness; "my  dreams  of  bliss  are  vanished;  the  paradise  of 
love  will  never  cheer  this  isolated  heart.  But  I  would  not 
upbraid  thee." 

He  related  to  Solyman  the  history  of  his  betrothal,  his 
anticipated  marriage,  and  the  fatal  denunciation  which  had 
blasted  his  hopes.  He  trusted  to  the  generosity  of  his  brother, 


SELIM.  145 

and  appealed  to  him,  by  all  that  was  dear  and  holy,  to  relin- 
quish a  design  which  was  not  only  endangering  his  own  life, 
but  destroying  the  happiness  of  a  brother. 

Sblyman  listened  in  breathless  anxiety,  but  Selim  marked 
with  indignant  surprise,  that  his  eye  kindled  in  the  moonlight 
with  a  fierce  delight,  which  seemed  to  mock  the  calm  radiance 
it  reflected.  He  gazed  on  the  majestic  features,  which  shone 
with  a  corresponding  illumination,  and  almost  imagined  some 
malignant  spirit  had  animated  them.  That  Solyman  should 
exult  in  the  ruin  he  had  caused,  was  as  incredible  as  it  was 
maddening. 

"Fear  not,"  exclaimed  Solyman  exultingly,  "she  shall  yet 
be  thine.  No  fraternal  blood  shall  bedew  the  hymeneal  altar. 
Meet  me  to-morrow,  at  early  dawn,  at  the  foot  of  yon  moun- 
tain which  stretches  its  dark  outline  on  the  right,  and  I  will 
show  you  credentials  which  shall  prove  the  power  of  my 
words." 

They  parted,  to  meet  again  at  the  appointed  hour.  They 
met  in  secret  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  whose  summit  was 
just  gilded  by  the  breaking  light. 

Selim  earnestly  perused  the  face  of  his  brother,  that  he 
might  penetrate  the  depths  of  his  soul  and  learn  his  latent 
intentions — but  he  could  not  fathom  them.  He  saw  only  the 
bold,  unquiet  eye,  the  proud,  curling  lip  and  haughty  mien, 
which  had  distinguished  him  in  early  years,  and  gained  him 
the  appellation  of  Solyman  the  Proud. 

The  spot  which  had  been  selected,  was  one  which  nature 
had  guarded  from  intrusion  with  the  most  jealous  care.  On 
one  side,  a  cluster  of  trees,  clothed  in  the  densest  foliage, 
presented  a  wall  of  living  verdure  impervious  to  the  eye ;  on 
the  other,  a  broad  stream,  darkened  by  the  boughs  which 
overshadowed  its  banks,  poured  its  tributary  stream  into  the 
Euphrates'  distant  waves.  Selim  impatiently  demanded  of 
his  brother  the  credentials  which  he*  had  promised  to  deliver. 
Solyman  drew  from  beneath  the  foldings  of  his  robe  a  casket, 
and,  touching  a  secret  spring,  displayed  its  brilliant  contents. 
It  was  filled  with  the  richest  gems,  but  there  were  papers 
concealed  in  this  magnificent  bed  of  diamonds,  which  Selim 
gathered  up,  regardless  of  the  splendour  which  surrounded 
them.  From  these  papers  he  discovered  that  Zerah,  his  be- 
trothed bride,  the  supposed  daughter  of  Ibrahim,  was  the 
orphan  princess,  who  had  been  rescued  in  infancy  from  the 
power  of  Amurath.  He,  whose  attachment  to  his  murdered 


146  SELIM. 

sovereign  had  led  him  to  protect  this  lone  blossom  from  the 
storm  which  had  uprooted  the  parent  stein,  placed  her  in  the 
arms  of  Ibrahim's  gentle  wife,  who  was  watching  by  the  cradle 
of  her  own  slumbering  babe.  Ibrahim  was  then  absent,  but 
she  vowed  to  cherish,  with  a  mother's  tenderness,  the  innocent 
being  committed  to  her  care.  In  the  mean  time,  by  a  mys- 
terious dispensation  of  Heaven,  her  own  child  sickened  and 
died,  and  when  Ibrahim,  who  had  attached  himself  to  the  new 
dynasty,  returned,  he  received  to  his  bosom,  with  unconscious 
loyalty,  the  lovely  offspring  of  a  kingly  line.  There  was  an 
inexplicable  resemblance  between  the  two  infants,  and  the 
wife  of  Ibrahim  justly  deemed  that  her  husband  would  be 
secured  from  much  solicitude  and  danger,  if  he  remained 
ignorant  of  the  hazardous  charge  she  had  received.  She  was 
now  no  more,  and  they,  who  now  stood  side  by  side,  in  the 
solitude  we  have  described,  were  the  sole  possessors  of  this 
interesting  secret. 

Selim  grasped  the  casket  as  if  it  contained  his  salvation,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Mine  be  the  bosom  to  guard  these  sacred  testi- 
monies. I  dare  not  hazard  their  safety,  even  in  your  hands. 
Should  Amurath  but,  dream  of  her  identity  with  the  object  of 
his  fears,  her  life  would  be  the  instantaneous  sacrifice.  Even 
now  his  emissaries  are  on  the  watch,  sent  to  every  part  of  his 
kingdom,  to  discover  the  victim  of  his  ambition." 

"  No — they  shall  be  a  pledge  between  thee  and  me,"  ex- 
claimed Solyman.  "  Thou  hast  sworn  not  to  betray  me,  but 
thou  art  human.  My  life  and  that  of  my  brave  band  are  in 
thy  power.  I  have  revealed  to  thee  our  most  secret  designs — 
thee,  the  favourite  of  a  tyrant.  What  surety  hast  thou  given  ? 
Nothing  but  breath,  already  melted  in  air.  Shouldst  thou 
yield  to  the  weakness  of  passion,  and  deliver  us  into  the  hands 
of  him  by  whom  thou  art  thyself  enslaved,  thy  Zerah's  life  shall 
be  the  sacrifice  of  thy  broken  faith.  I  brought  thee  here,  that 
thou  mightst  learn  the  secret  of  Zerah's  birth,  but  never, 
never,  will  I  relinquish  to  the  friend  of  tyranny,  the  treasure 
which  expiring  loyalty  committed  to  my  trust." 

He  ceased,  and,  suddenly  snatching  the  casket  from  the  hand 
of  Selim,  turned  and  plunged  into  the  stream  that  rolled  near 
the  spot  where  they  stood.  The  action  was  so  sudden  and 
impetuous  that  Selim  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  deed,  till 
he  beheld  his  brother  severing  the  waters  with  one  hand,  while 
he  held  in  the  other  the  glittering  prize.  Soon  springing  upon 
the  opposite  bank,  he  waved  a  parting  sign  and  disappeared  in 


SELIM.  147 

the  obscurity  of  tbe  thicket.  Selim  gazed  after  this  wild  and 
singular  being  with  feelings  it  would  be  difficult  to  define; 
but  the  conviction  that  Solyman  despised  the  species  of  honour 
which  bound  him  to  Amurath,  stung  him  to  the  soul. 

"  He  knows  me  not,"  he  bitterly  cried;  but  the  recollection 
of  Zerah  and  the  dangers  which  surrounded  her,  soon  banished 
every  other  reflection.  The  sun  was  just  beginning  to  gild 
the  mist  which  curled  around  the  mountain's  brow, — that  sun, 
which  was  to  have  shone  upon  their  nuptial  vows.  The  fear 
that  Amurath  might  discover  the  secret  of  her  birth  deepened 
to  maddening  certainty,  as  he  thought  of  the  almost  illimitable 
power  which  the  Sultan  exercised  over  the  sordid  minions 
which  surrounded  his  throne.  He  could  not  believe  that  the 
knowledge  of  so  important  a  fact  was  confined  to  the  bosom 
of  one  individual.  He  determined  to  seek  the  dwelling  of 
Ibrahim,  and  warning  him  of  some  impending  calamity,  urge 
him  to  leave  the  country  and  bear  his  daughter  to  some  distant 
region,  where  they  might  remain  in  security  till  the  appre- 
hended danger  was  past. 

Ibrahim  beheld,  with  astonishment,  the  clouded  brow  and 
troubled  mien  of  Selim;  not  such  the  mien  that  bridegrooms 
are  wont  to  wear.  The  pride  of  the  father  rose  high  in  his 
heart,  for  the  beautiful  Zerah  was  the  fairest  flower  of  oriental 
climes,  and  he  deemed  her  a  gift  richer  than  all  the  gems  of 
the  East.  To  Selim's  impassioned  representations  of  unknown 
peril  which  awaited  them,  and  entreaties  for  their  immediate 
departure,  he  lent  a  doubting  ear.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  grandees  of  the  kingdom,  and  he  felt  that  he  pos- 
sessed sufficient  power  in  himself  to  guard  against  any  evils 
which  might  threaten  him.  With  proud  integrity  of  purpose, 
he  resolved  to  stand  firm  in  the  strength  of  conscious  rectitude. 
Selim  was  unprepared  for  this  resistance,  and  marked,  with 
anguish,  the  suspicions  which  had  entered  the  breast  of  Ibra- 
him. He  dared  not  avow  the  secret  which  oppressed  him  ;  he 
could  not  prove,  by  the  necessary  credentials,  the  almost  in- 
credible tale,  and  he  feared  that  ambition,  which  held  lordly 
sway  over  Ibrahim's  minor  passions,  would  lead  him  to  sacri- 
fice the  innocence  and  beauty  he  had  protected  while  ignorant 
of  its  imperial  origin.  Ibrahim  summoned  his  daughter,  and, 
commanding  her  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  her  lover's  con- 
duct, or  to  withdraw  the  pledge  she  had  given,  left  the  apart- 
ment. 

Selim  had  not,  till  this  moment,  experienced  the  overwhelm- 


148  SELIM. 

ing  embarrassment  of  his  situation.  He  stood  pale  and  irreso- 
lute in  the  presence  of  her,  whom  he  was  to  have  claimed  that 
day  as  a  triumphant  bridegroom.  The  pride  which  sustained 
him  before  his  fellow  man,  was  now  annihilated  by  a  stronger 
emotion.  He  did  not  speak,  but  throwing  himself  prostrate 
at  her  feet,  buried  his  face  in  the  foldings  of  her  robe.  And 
surely,  if  aught  in  woman's  form  could  justify  the  adoration 
of  the  heart,  this  daughter  of  a  kingly  race  might  vindicate 
the  worship  she  inspired.  With  eyes  of  celestial  glory;  a 
brow  on  which  the  regality  of  nature  was  enthroned ;  a  cheek 
on  which  the  rich  blooin  of  the  pomegranate  was  mellowed  to 
the  softness  of  the  virgin  rose;  tresses  of  dark  redundance, 
that  wreathed  as  they  fell,  forming  a  native  veil  around  her — 
she  moved  amid  the  maidens  of  that  eastern  land,  fair  and 
transcendent  as  the  moon,  when,  attended  by  her  starry  hand- 
maids, she  walks  the  palace  of  the  skies.  The  temple  was 
worthy  of  the  divinity  which  it  enshrined.  Thus  clothed  with 
the  light  of  material  and  spiritual  loveliness,  she  seemed  born 
to  feel  and  to  create  a  passion,  refined  above  the  grossness 
of  mortality.  Unlike  the  proud  and  jealous  Ibrahim,  she 
doubted  not  the  faith  of  her  lover.  When,  in  broken  accents, 
he  told  her  of  the  interdiction  to  their  nuptials,  of  the  cloud 
that  was  darkening  over  their  destiny,  she  wept  ov£r  their 
blighted  hopes,  but,  instead  of  withdrawing,  she  renewed  her 
vows  of  love  and  fidelity.  Oh  !  pure  and  trusting  is  the 
tenderness  of  woman's  uncorrupted  heart !  A  ray  emanating 
from  the  fountain  of  all  purity  and  light,  shining  on  with  un- 
wavering brightness,  undimmed  by  the  gloom  of  sorrow,  un- 
extinguished  by  the  darkness  of  despair.  The  darker  and 
closer  the  clouds  gather  around,  the  clearer  and  brighter  its 
divine  effulgence — the  sunshine  resting  on  the  coming  tem- 
pest, the  rainbow  gilding  its  retiring  shades. 

Selim  felt,  in  this  moment,  more  than  indemnified  for  all  he 
had  endured.  The  conviction  of  her  unalterable  love,  restored 
to  him  the  energy  and  eloquence  which  had  ever  rendered  him 
an  irresistible  pleader.  Zerah  yielded  to  the  entreaties  which 
Ibrahim  had  resisted,  and,  ere  they  parted,  consented  to  fly 
with  him  to  some  far  and  lone  retreat,  where,  like  the  desert 
flower  which  blossoms  unseen,  save  by  the  All-seeing  eye,  she 
would  be  content  to  bloom  alone  for  him. 

Selim  sought  the  palace  of  Amurath.  He  had  one  of  the 
hardest  tasks  for  a  noble  and  an  ingenuous  mind  to  perform. 
He  was  compelled  to  mask  his  purpose,  to  appear  with  deep 

•*£*. 


SELIM.  149 

submission  before  the  sovereign,  whose  resentment  he  had  in- 
curred. The  day  must  be  devoted  to  the  revolting  task  of 
deception — the  succeeding  night  to  his  secret  flight.  He  was 
retracing,  with  slow  steps,  the  path  which  led  to  the  mountain 
stream,  that  he  might  avoid  the  guards  of  the  Sultan,  when 
he  suddenly  encountered  Solyman,  who  was  hurrying  along 
with  breathless  speed,  his  countenance  indicative  of  the  most 
violent  emotion. 

"  Fly  !"  exclaimed  Solyman,  in  a  voice  which  sounded,  in 
Selim's  startled  ear,  loud  as  the  tec-bir  shout.  "Fly — the 
minions  of  tyranny  are  abroad — they  rushed  upon  me,  cowards 
as  they  are, — they  wrested  the  casket  from  my  unguarded 
hand, — their  scimitars  were  flashing  around  me.  I  fled,  but 
not  in  fear.  I  fled  in  search  of  vengeance.  See,"  he  con- 
tinued, lifting  on  high  his  bleeding  hand,  "  for  every  drop  of  blood 
a  thousand  streams  shall  flow.  Fly  through  yon  secret  path, 
— intercept  the  wretch  who  robbed  me  of  my  treasure.  He 
left  his  comrades  far  behind.  Fear  not  the  power  of  Amurath. 
I  swear  to  redeem  thee  or  perish  by  thy  side." 

Swift  as  the  lightning's  flash  he  vanished,  and  swift  as  the 
same  electric  messenger  of  wrath,  Selim  pursued  the  path 
which  Solyman  had  indicated.  That  fatal  casket !  Had  he 
ten  thousand  lives,  he  would  have  perilled  them  all  for  the 
possession  of  that  priceless  treasure.  Zerah,  expiring  under 
the  hands  of  the  assassin,  rose,  an  embodied  vision,  before  him. 
So  powerful  was  the  illusion,  that  when  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  mantle  fluttering  amid  the  foliage  of  the  trees,  he  called 
out  with  the  energy  of  despair — 

"  Save  her  !    All-gracious  Allah  !  save  her  I" 

It  was  the  guard,  who  was  hastening  to  the  Sultan  with  the 
casket  he  had  stolen.  He  turned  at  the  sudden  adjuration. 
The  powerful  grasp  of  Selim  impeded  his  flight.  He  was  a 
man  of  towering  stature  and  athletic  limbs,  noted  for  physical 
strength,  and  one  of  the  chosen  guards  of  the  Sultan.  He 
met  the  stern  embrace  of  Selim,  with  one  which  might  have 
crushed  a  feebler  frame.  They  grappled  long  and  fiercely,  and 
it  was  only  with  the  life-blood  of  his  antagonist,  that  Selim 
redeemed  the  prize  for  which  he  would  freely  have  poured  out 
his  own.  Burying  the  casket  in  his  bosom,  he  mantled  over 
it  the  folds  of  his  robe ;  but  the  conviction  of  Zerah's  safety 
was  immediately  followed  by  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
danger.  He  was  surrounded  by  the  Janizzaries,  who  had  over- 
taken the  flying  steps  of  their  comrade,  and  who  had  been  sent 


150  SELIM. 

as  spies  to  watch  the  secret  movements  of  Selim.  He  saw 
that  it  was  in  vain  to  contend  with  an  armed  band,  but  lifting 
his  blade  aloft,  still  dripping  with  the  blood  of  his  adversary, 
with  that  majesty  of  look  and  gesture  which  always  had  such 
an  overawing  influence  on  inferior  minds,  he  commanded  them 
to  forbear. 

"  Stand  back/'  he  cried;  "what  would  ye  dare  to  do  ?  Go 
o  the  Sultan — say  that  ye  saw  me  wing  yon  felon's  soul  to 
Paradise.  Ay,  tell  him,  too,  that  ye  saw  me  fling  into  the 
oblivious  waves,  what  I  would  not  barter  for  all  the  riches  of 
his  kingdom." 

Then  opening  his  blood-stained  robe,  he  drew  forth  the 
casket  of  Zerah,  and  raising  it  high  over  their  unsheathed 
weapons,  dashed  it  into  the  waters  of  the  mountain  stream, 
then  rushing  on  in  a  downward  and  swollen  current,  forming 
a  deep  and  unsearchable  grave.  The  deed  was  instantaneous. 
Selim  drew  a  deep  inspiration,  as  if  his  bosom  were  relieved 
from  some  oppressive  burden.  The  secret  was  now  safe  in  his 
own  heart,  and  no  tyrant's  power  could  penetrate  that  inner 
sanctuary.  Turning  to  the  astonished  guards,  he  signed  them 
to  advance.  Accustomed  to  obey  the  princely  Selim,  they 
involuntarily  yielded  to  his  sway,  and  though  they  marched 
on  either  side,  with  naked  blades,  precluding  the  possibility 
of  escape,  he  had  more  the  air  of  a  sovereign  with  his  attend- 
ant vassals,  than  a  victim  to  be  arraigned  before  the  tribunal 
of  offended  majesty. 

With  a  dauntless  mien  and  unfaltering  step,  Selim  entered 
the  presence  of  Amurath.  He  knew  the  doom  that  awaited 
him,  but,  as  the  bark  which  is  about  to  be  swallowed  by  the 
ocean  wave  is  borne  up  over  the  stormy  billows,  rising  with 
the  rising  tempest,  bis  spirit  rose  above  the  perils  which 
threatened  to  overwhelm  him.  He  stood  in  immovable  silence 
while  the  guards  related  the  scene  which  we  have  described, 
and  met  with  an  unquailing  eye,  the  withering  glance  of  the 
Sultan. 

The  wrath  of  Amurath  was,  at  first,  too  deep  for  words. 
In  spite  of  his  denunciations,  he  had  felt,  till  this  moment,  a 
confidence  in  the  fidelity  of  Selim  which  he  deemed  it  im- 
possible to  abandon.  The  conviction  of  his  perfidy  brought 
with  it  the  most  exquisite  pang.  Selirn  was  the  only  being 
whom  he  had  ever  really  loved  and  trusted,  and  a  tear  actually 
glistened  in  his  haughty  eye,  as  one  by  one  he  gathered  up 
the  proofs  of  his  favourite's  treachery  and  ingratitude.  Selim 

,',. 

'*.        fr  * 


SELIM.  151 

marked  the  unwonted  sign  of  human  tenderness,  and  his  pride 
molted  at  the  sight.  He  saw  once  more  the  trusting  friend, 
the  munificent  benefactor,  and  casting  down  his  scimitar  at 
the  foot  of  the  throne,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Commander  of  the  Faithful !  take  back  thy  gift — take 
even  the  life  which  Allah  has  given — but  leave  me  yet  the 
consciousness  of  my  integrity.  I  am  no  traitor,  sire  ;  though 
stained  with  the  blood  of  thy  subject,  I  am  guiltless  of  treason, 
and  with  my  expiring  breath  I  will  proclaim  my  innocence." 

"  Prove  then  thy  innocence,"  cried  Amurath.  "  I  swear 
by  the  golden  buckle  of  the  Prophet,  if  thou  wilt  reveal  the 
name  of  the  supposed  offspring  of  sovereignty,  and  place  her 
in  our  power,  I  will  freely  pardon  thy  past  offences,  restore 
thy  forfeited  honours,  and  give  thee,  even  this  day,  thy 
plighted  bride." 

Selim  folded  his  arms  resolutely  over  his  breast. 

"  The  secret  is  buried  here !"  he  cried,  "  and  shall  perish 
with  me  !  No  commands  can  force,  no  tortures  compel  me  to 
reveal  it.  I  offer  thee  my  life — thou  mayst  devote  it  to  bond- 
age, to  death — but  thou  hast  not,  canst  not  have  control  over 
my  free  spirit's  will." 

"  Away  then  to  the  darkest  dungeon — away  till  the  traitor's 
death  is  prepared  for  thee  !  My  slighted  mercy  shall  turn  to 
vengeance  now!  The  hour  of  relenting  is  past.  Thy  fate 
shall  tell  to  after  ages  of  the  ingratitude  of  favourites  and  the 
justice  of  kings." 

Selim  bent  his  head  in  token  of  submission.  Amurath 
ordered  him  to  be  shackled  in  his  presence,  that  the  scene  of 
his  glory  might  also  be  that  of  his  degradation.  Then,  after 
a  fresh  ebullition  of  rage,  he  commanded  the  guards  to  bear 
him  to  his  cell. 

A  damp  and  noisome  dungeon,  feebly  lighted  by  the  rays 
which  struggled  through  the  grated  walls,  was  now  the  abode 
of  the  late  magnificent  Selim — sad  proof  of  the  evanescent 
nature  of  all  earthly  glory.  But  there  is  a  moral  brightness, 
transcending  the  noonday  beams,  which  can  throw  over  the 
darkest  hour  of  human  suffering  the  radiance  of  heaven.  He 
who  is  willing  to  sacrifice  his  existence  for  another,  is  sup- 
ported by  the  spirit  of  martyrdom,  and  that  spirit  will  bear 
him  up,  as  on  angel  wings,  over  the  gloomy  valley  of  despair. 
But  the  exaltation  of  feeling  which  attends  the  performance 
of  a  magnanimous  deed,  and  which  sustains  the  sufferer  in  the 
moment  of  physical  agony,  gradually  subsided  as  he  recalled 


152  SELIM. 

the  appalling  circumstances  which  accompanied  the  sacrifice 
he  was  making.  To  lay  down  his  life  for  Zerah,  and  leave 
behind  him  an  unblemished  name — a  memory  which  the  brave 
might  honour,  and  the  true-hearted  mourn — would  have  seemed 
a  trifling  effort  for  a  love  like  his.  But  to  go  down  to  the  grave 
in  ignominy  and  shame;  to  be  branded  with  the  name  of 
traitor — that  withering,  deathless  curse — while  even  she  for 
whom  he  died,  might  learn  to  scorn  his  memory,  and  place 
another  on  the  shrine  where  once  his  image  dwelt,  in  the  pure 
consecration  of  her  virgin  thoughts;  the  very  idea  was  mad- 
dening. He  lifted  his  shackled  hands  to  heaven,  and  prayed 
Allah  to  send  down  a  pitying  bolt,  to  destroy  at  once  the 
wretched  being  he  had  made ;  then  let  the  waters  of  oblivion 
roll  over  his  remembrance  and  obliterate  it  from  the  records 
of  the  living.  He  poured  out  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  into 
the  all-hearing  ear  of  the  Most  High,  till  in  the  stillness  of 
awe,  the  troubled  billows  of  passion  sunk  to  rest.  At  last, 
the  feeble  light  of  his  cell  darkened  and  disappeared.  Con- 
scious of  the  return  of  night,  he  wondered  that  Amurath 
should  delay  the  execution  of  his  wrath.  Every  moment  he 
expected  to  hear  the  bolts  undraw  and  to  see  the  ministers  of 
death  approach,  but  he  had  wrestled  with  the  indwelling 
enemy  and  coine  off  victorious;  and  thowing  himself  down 
on  the  cold  floor  of  his  dungeon,  he  slept  more  calmly  than 
Amurath  on  his  bed  of  luxury. 

He  slept — but  his  dreams  assumed  the  dark  colour  of  his 
destiny.  He  wandered  in  an  interminable  desert,  where  no 
oasis  refreshed  the  eye  with  its  emerald  beauty — no  fountain 
bathed  the  thirsty  lip  with  its  life-giving  waters.  Languid, 
despairing,  he  threw  himself  on  the  hot,  arid  waste,  praying 
for  dissolution,  when  suddenly  the  gates  of  Paradise  unfolded, 
a  flood  of  radiance  annihilated  the  gloom,  and  the  "dark 
heaven  of  Houris'  eyes"  beamed  with  flashing  brightness  on 
his  vision.  The  dazzling  contrast  broke  his  slumbers.  He 
started  and  gazed  around  him.  His  dream  was  fled,  but  the 
illumination  remained.  A  celestial  figure,  clothed  in  white, 
bearing  a  lamp  in  one  fair  hand,  while  she  veiled  with  the 
other  her  dazzled  eyes,  stood  by  the  side  of  the  slumbering 
victim.  It  stood  with  pallid  brow,  and  dark,  resplendent 
locks,  beautiful  as  the  angel  who  is  sent  to  bear  the  liberated 
soul  to  the  bowers  of  immortality.  But  it  was  no  spirit  of 
heaven  that  thus  severed  the  dungeon's  gloom.  It  was  a 
daughter  of  earth,  young,  loving  and  beloved — full  of  earth's 


SELIM.  153 

warmest  affections,  yet  sharing  earth's  bitterest  woes.  It  was 
Zerah  who  stood  by  her  doomed  lover,  and  met  his  waking 
glance.  Almost  doubting  in  what  world  he  existed,  he  started 
from  his  recumbent  position,  while  the  clanking  of  his  chains 
sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through  the  tender  bosom  that  soon 
throbbed  wildly  against  his  own.  She,  who  in  the  hour  of 
prosperity  and  joy  repelled  with  bashful  pride  the  ardour  of 
her  lover,  as  the  flower  which  turns  from  the  sun's  meridian 
rays,  now  threw  her  pure  arms  around  him  and  moistened  his 
fetters  with  her  tears. 

"  Hast  thou  come,"  he  cried,  "  to  travel  with  me  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  dark  valley,  and  to  receive  from  my  dying  lips 
the  vows  of  imperishable  love  ?" 

"  I  come/'  said  Zerah,  in  low,  faltering  accents,  "  as  a  mes- 
senger of  mercy  and  pardon.  I  come  in  Amurath's  name  to 
bid  thee  live." 

"  Live  I"  exclaimed  Selim — and  every  drop  of  blood  was 
quickened  in  his  veins.  "  And  live  for  thee  !" 

Zerah  paused,  as  if  irresolute  in  what  words  to  utter  the 
commission  with  which  she  was  charged.  Bending  her  head 
till  her  brow  was  veiled  with  her  mantling  locks,  she  con- 
tinued— 

"  The  Sultan  demands  of  thee  the  name  of  the  unfortunate 
princess,  who  lives  unknown  to  all  but  thee  and  thy  secret  ac- 
complice. It  is  his  last  offer  of  mercy.  He  commissioned 
me,  thy  plighted  bride,  to  offer  thee  again  the  alternative  of 
life  and  death,  that  love  might  move  the  heart  inflexible  to  the 
pleadings  of  royalty." 

"Would  Zerah  counsel  dishonour?"  cried  Selim,  almost 
sternly,  his  warm  hopes  chilled  to  ice  as  she  spoke.  "  Would 
she  purchase  my  life  with  the  blood  of  innocence  ?" 

"  I  would  purchase  thy  life  with  the  blood  of  thousands," 
she  wildly  exclaimed — and,  sinking  on  her  knees  before  him, 
she  locked  her  hands  in  the  agony  of  supplication.  "  I  pray 
thee  but  to  live ;  what  is  the  world  to  me  ?  He  claims  not 
blood;  'tis  but  a  name  he  asks ;  and  yet  that  simple  word  thou 
wilt  withhold,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  Zerah's  life  !" 

"  Zerah  !"  he  cried,  "  in  Allah's  name  forbear !  Thou 
knowest  not  what  thou  askest." 

Zerah  gazed  earnestly  for  a  moment  in  her  lover's  face, 
then  rising  from  her  kneeling  attitude,  every  feature  of  her 
face  changed  in  its  expression.     The  look  of  intense  anguish 
and  entreaty  resolved  into  that  of  cold,  settled  despair. 
127 


154  SELIM. 

"The  truth  has  entered  my  heart,"  she  said,  and  her  late 
faltering  voice  was  firm  and  distinct.  "  Thou  lovest  this  orphan 
daughter  of  a  kingly  race.  Thou  hast  pledged  thy  false  vows 
to  Zerah,  while  thy  heart  is  given  to  her  who  dwells  in  thy 
secret  bower.  And  I,  insulted  and  betrayed,  I  have  knelt  at 
thy  feet  in  vain,  while  thou  art  sacrificing  thy  life  and  soul  for 
another  I" 

"  Oh  !  cruel  and  unjust !"  exclaimed  Selim,  in  an  agony  of 
uncontrollable  emotion. — "  Dear,  unhappy  Zerah  !  thou  hast 
added  the  bitterest  drop  to  my  cup  of  misery !  For  thee  to 
doubt  my  faith  !  Oh  !  mayst  thou  never  know  how  fearfully 
this  ill-requited  faith  is  proved." 

The  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard  in  the  passage. 

"  They  come,"  cried  Zerah,  "  to  bear  me  from  thy  cell.  The 
allotted  moments  are  past.  For  the  last  time,  oh  !  inexorable 
Selim,  wilt  thou  destroy  thyself  and  me  ?" 

The  grating  of  the  heavy  bolt  was  heard.  The  paleness  of 
death  overspread  her  face,  and  the  cold  dew  of  mortal  anguish 
gathered  on  her  brow.  Selim  felt  that  the  tortures  his  sup- 
posed perfidy  inflicted,  were  keener  than  those  which  the 
cruelty  of  Amurath  could  invent.  Must  then  the  sacrifice  be 
vain  ?  While  he  was  offering  himself  for  the  salvation  of  her 
life,  must  she  believe  his  perfidious  hand  was  stabbing,  with 
deliberate  treachery,  her  too  fond,  too  trusting  heart?  The 
guards  entered  the  cell. 

"All-Gracious  Allah  !"  he  cried,  "let  us  die  together." 

As  the  words  of  this  deep  prayer  fell  from  the  lips  of  her 
ill-fated  lover,  Zerah  fell  back,  fainting,  in  the  arms  of  the 
guard,  who  sprang  forward  to  receive  her  before  Selim  could 
oppose  his  advance. 

"  The  bitterness  of  death  is  past !"  he  cried,  as  he  saw  her 
borne  from  his  sight,  her  long  hair  sweeping  the  dungeon's 
floor,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  cheeks  white  as  the  folds  of  her 
snowy  robe. 

He  heard  the  bolts  re-drawn,  and  the  groan  which  then  burst 
from  his  tortured  heart,  was  the  first  and  the  last  which  the 
vindictive  Amurath  extorted  from  his  victim. 

There  was  the  clashing  of  arms,  the  neighing  of  steeds,  the 
shouts  of  a  multitude  heard  that  night,  near  the  royal  palace. 
The  tumult  deepened  and  swelled.  The  name  of  Selim  re- 
sounded through  the  midnight  air,  and  thrilled  in  the  ear  of 
Amurath,  loud  as  the  notes  of  the  Archangel's  trump.  It 
was  Solyman  at  the  head  of  the  insurgent  band.  Thousands 


,r~ 

SELIM.  155 

who  were  groaning  under  the  rod  of  despotism,  yet  waiting  for 
some  master  spirit  to  give  the  momentum  to  them,  rushed  forth 
with  gleaming  scimitars  and  joined  the  war-cry  which  thundered 
on  the  gale.  They  pierced  into  the  dark  recesses  of  cruelty. 
They  reached  the  dungeon  of  Selim.  There,  extended  on  the 
ground,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  arms,  which  were  stretched 
listlessly  on  the  damp  earth,  and  his  mantle  thrown  over  him 
like  a  pall,  lay  the  princely  Selim. 

"Almighty  Allah  !  we  have  come  too  late  !"  exclaimed  Soly- 
man,  throwing  himself  by  the  body  of  his  brother,  and  strain- 
ing to  his  own  that  now  insensible  heart.  "  Where  is  the 
imperial  murderer?"  he  cried,  springing  from  the  earth,  with 
eyes  in  which  the  tear-drops  of  agony  were  quenched  by  the 
blaze  of  vengeance.  "  Where  is  the  accursed  Amurath  ?  By 
the  Angel  of  Death,  he  shall  meet  his  martyred  victim,  soul 
to  soul,  before  the  lightning's  bolt  could  compass  the  world. 
Follow  me — let  the  cry  of  '  Selim  and  Vengeance'  rend  the 
heavens  and  echo  to  the  ears  of  the  Prophet's  God." 

Soon  the  avenging  shout  was  heard  in  the  walls  of  the 
palace,  followed  by  the  shrieks  and  wailings  of  despair. 

Vengeance  was  sated — the  usurper  slain. 

Solyman  raised  his  smoking  blade  and  beheld,  with  a  terri- 
ble smile,  the  blood  dripping  drop  by  drop  from  its  shining 
surface. 

"  Selim  !"  he  groaned ;  "  my  noble,  matchless  brother !  Ac- 
cept the  oblation  I  offer  to  thee  !" 

"  He  lives  !"  cried  one  of  the  insurgents,  rushing  through 
the  crowd.  "  He  is  not  dead, — they  are  bearing  him  even 
now  to  the  palace  with  acclamations  of  joy." 

Yes  !  Selim  lived.  He  had  fainted  under  the  crushing 
weight  of  his  destiny — but  his  spirit  returned  to  find  life, 
freedom,  triumph,  joy,  and  love.  A  throne,  too  !  Thousands 
hailed  him  as  the  successor  of  the  fallen  Amurath. 

"  No  !"  said  he,  turning  to  his  brave  brother — "  there  is 
your  true  liberator  and  rightful  sovereign." 

"  The  wilderness  is  my  empire  !"  replied  Solyman — "  the 
heavens  my  canopy,  and  the  rock  my  throne.  I  would  not 
exchange  my  sovereignty  for  the  diadem  of  the  East." 

Selim  saw  him  depart  to  his  mountain  home,  with  feelings 
of  admiration  and  regret.  There  was  a  fascination  in  the  wild 
majesty  of  his  character,  and  the  intensity  of  his  fraternal 
love  bound  him  to  his  heart  with  strong  and  holy  ties.  He 


156  SELIM. 

never  forgot  that  he  owed  his  present  happiness  and  grandeur 
to  his  magnanimous  spirit  and  powerful  arm. 

United  to  the  beautiful  Zerah,  now  the  acknowledged  re- 
presentative of  a  race  of  kings,  he  ruled  with  a  golden  scep- 
tre over  the  hearts  of  his  subjects,  who  gave  him  the  glorious 
title  of  "  Selim — the  Just — the  Magnificent." 


HOWARD, 
THE  APPKENTICE  BOY. 


IN  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis  of  New  England,  there 
resided  a  poor  boy.  Ignorant  of  his  parentage — without  one 
acknowledged  relation — he  was  thrown  for  care  and  protection 
upon  the  family  of  a  tanner.  Fortunately  for  him,  this  family 
was  kind  and  good;  and  the  delicate  and  lonely  child  was 
cherished  with  parental  tenderness.  But  his  benefactors  were 
poor,  and  the  wants  of  a  growing  family  impeded  the  exercise 
of  their  loving  kindness  and  Christian  charity.  The  sensitive 
boy  often  felt  as  if  he  were  a  burden  on  their  care,  and  sought 
by  every  means  in  his  power  to  prove  his  gratitude  and  devotion. 
As  he  was  of  slender  frame,  no  rough  manual  labour  was  im- 
posed upon  him  ;  but  with  most  mistaken  tenderness,  the  office 
of  nurse  was  allotted  to  him,  as  congenial  to  his  strength  and 
loving  disposition.  Howard — (the  friends  of  the  nameless  boy 
had  given  him  a  name  which  every  lover  of  mankind  cherishes 
with  reverence) — used  to  wander  abroad  with  the  infant,  his 
foster  sister,  in  his  arms,  and  a  book  in  his  pocket,  and  seek- 
ing the  shade  of  some  natural  arbour,  seat  the  infant  gently  on 
the  grass,  and  taking  his  book  in  his  hand,  alternately  scan 
the  well-thumbed  page  and  caress  the  gentle  child — who  would 
gaze  up  into  the  deep  blue  sky,  or  down  into  the  clear  blue 
stream,  with  smiling  earnestness,  as  if  holding  communion, 
with  kindred  cherubs  there.  His  extraordinary  powers  of 
mind,  and  exquisite  tenderness  of  heart,  were  thus  early  and 
simultaneously  developed. 

One  beautiful  summer  afternoon,  he  thus  sat  in  a  little 
bower,  near  the  tannery  and  not  far  from  the  roadside.  It 

(157) 


158  HOWARD. 

was  one  of  the  most  wildly  beautiful,  picturesque  spots  in 
New  England,  and  the  young  dreamer  drank  in  draughts  of 
beauty  and  sublimity  almost  maddening,  for  he  had  no  one  to 
whom  he  could  breathe  his  enthusiastic  emotions — his  aspirings 
after  the  destiny  to  which,  even  then,  he  felt  conscious  that  he 
was  born.  This  evening  he  was  roused  from  his  reveries,  by 
the  approach  of  a  gentleman  on  horseback.  The  gentleman 
rode  leisurely,  with  the  reins  hanging  loosely  on  the  horse's 
neck,  as  if  he  were  taking  in  the  whole  loveliness  of  a  land- 
scape shining  with  the  glory-hues  of  meridian  summer. 

He  was  attracted  by  the  student  boy,  and  the  quiet,  musing 
infant  at  his  feet.  Dismounting  and  suffering  his  weary  horse 
to  browse  on  the  grass  by  the  wayside,  he  walked  towards  the 
boy,  who  threw  his  book  on  the  ground  and  rose  with  natural 
politeness,  as  the  distinguished-looking  stranger  approached. 
He  had  never  seen  a  man  with  so  imposing  an  appearance. 
He  was  richly  and  elegantly  dressed,  and  the  unmistakable 
stamp  of  a  proud  intellect  was  on  his  brow.  He  fixed  upon 
the  boy  an  eye  keen  as  a  falcon's,  and  gazed  upon  him  a  few 
moments  without  speaking.  There  was  something  magnetic 
in  the  glance,  and  Howard  felt  its  influence  to  his  spirit's  core. 
Why  should  the  stranger  look  on  him  so  steadfastly  ?  He 
was  not  a  beautiful  boy,  though  thought  and  sensibility  often 
made  him  appear  so.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  brown 
homespun,  and  his  shirt-collar,  though  white,  was  of  the 
coarsest  domestic. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  boy  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"  Howard,  sir." 

"  Does  your  father  live  here,  at  the  tannery  ?" 

"  No,  sir — I  never  had  any  father."     The  stranger  smiled. 

"  And  your  mother — where  does  she  live  ?" 

"  She's  dead ;  she  died  when  I  was  a  baby.  Mrs.  Mason 
took  me  home,  and  I've  lived  with  her  ever  since." 

The  gentleman  kept  his  unreceding  gaze  upon  the  boy. 
whose  naturally  pale  cheeks  at  length  grew  crimson  under  his 
scrutiny. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  reading?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  book 
lying  on  the  grass. 

"  Yes,  sir — I  love  it  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

"  What  book  is  that  ?" 

"  It  is  the  Life  of  Franklin,  sir.  I  almost  know  it  by  heart. 
I  love  to  read  of  great  men  who  were  once  poor  boys;  be- 


HOWARD.  159 

cause "  he  stopped  and  blushed,  and  began  to  pull  the 

leaves  from  the  low  branches  sweeping  over  him. 

"  Because  what,  my  boy  ?     Do  not  be  afraid  to  speak." 

"  Because,  though  I  am  a  poor  boy  now,  I  think  I  could  be 
a  great  man  some  day,  if  I  tried  hard." 

"  Do  you  go  to  school?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  have  to  stay  at  home  and  take  care  of  the  baby." 

A  scornful  smile  played  for  a  moment  on  the  lips  of  the 
stranger,  followed  almost  instantaneously  by  a  dark  frown. 

"  A  pretty  employment  for  a  boy  like  you !" 

Howard  shrank  from  the  expression  of  that  haughty,  hand- 
some face  looking  down  upon  him.  An  irresistible  repulsion 
made  him  draw  back  as  far  as  possible  from  him. 

"It's  all  I  can  do  for  them,"  answered  the  boy — "and  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  them,  I  should  have  been  a  beggar." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  days,  and  will  call  and  see 
Mr.  Mason ;  perhaps  I  can  do  something  for  you.  You  are 
too  smart  a  boy  to  spend  your  time  watching  such  little  brats 
as  these." 

The  gentle  little  baby,  who  had  apparently  listened  with 
quiet  interest  to  the  conversation  thus  far,  here  suddenly  put 
it*  chubby  sun-browned  arms  round  one  of  the  stranger's  ankles, 
and  looked  up  smilingly  in  his  face. 

"  Let  go,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  stern  voice,  drawing  back  so 
suddenly  that  the  little  creature,  rudely  loosened  from  its 
hold,  was  thrown  upon  the  ground,  to  the  great  indignation 
of  Howard,  and  probably  much  to  its  own  astonishment. 
Howard  sprang  forward,  raised  his  protege"  in  his  arms,  and 
giving  a  rebuking  glance  at  the  stranger,  exclaimed — 

"  You  are  not  a  kind  gentleman,  sir,  or  you  wouldn't  hurt 
a  baby.  I  don't  wish  you  to  do  anything  for  me,  I  thank  you, 
sir." 

The  stranger  laughed,  touched  the  boy's  head  lightly  with 
his  whip  handle,  told  him  he  was  a  boy  of  spirit  and  bid  fair 
to  be  a  hero ;  then  sauntering  back  to  his  horse,  he  mounted 
him  and  rode  away. 

"  I  do  not  like  him,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  he  is  not  good  ;  he 
is  cruel  and  wicked,  I  know.  If  I  cannot  be  a  great  man  with- 
out his  help,  I  don't  want  to  be  one  at  all.  Poor  little  Alice !" 
continued  he,  kissing  away  the  tears  that  stood  on  the  baby's 


160  HOWARD. 

velvet  cheeks.  "  How  could  he  call  you  a  brat,  when  you  are 
so  sweet !" 

About  a  week  after  this  incident,  the  stranger  called  on  Mr. 
Mason,  and  had  a  long  conversation  respecting  the  boy,  the 
result  of  which  was  communicated  to  him  after  his  departure. 

"  Come  here,  Howard,"  said  Mr.  Mason,  taking  the  boy's 
hand  and  drawing  him  between  his  knees.  "  There's  been  a 
gentleman  here,  who  says  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to  you.  He's 
going  to  take  you  home,  send  you  to  school,  and  make  a  man 
of  you." 

"  Is  he  ?"  cried  Howard,  an  expression  of  unconquerable 
repugnance  settling  on  his  countenance. 

"  You  are  to  leave  us,"  continued  Mr.  Mason,  his  voice 
growing  rather  husky  in  its  tone,  "  and  forget  that  you  have 
ever  been  with  us.  He  is  a  rich,  proud  man,  and  it  would  be 
a  disgrace  to  him  to  have  it  known  that  a  tanner's  boy  was  in 
his  house." 

"  I'll  never  live  with  him — I'll  never  leave  you  for  him, 
sir,"  answered  Howard,  emphatically ;  "  I  cannot  tell  the  rea- 
son, but  I  hate  him." 

It  was  strange  to  hear  so  gentle  a  boy  speak  in  such  bitter 
terms,  especially  of  one  who  had  made  him  so  munificent  an 
offer.  But  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  the  stranger,  made 
him  recoil  with  loathing  from  a  proposition  which  promised 
him  all  the  intellectual  advantages  for  which  his  young  and 
ardent  mind  was  earnestly  pauting.  The  moral  principle 
triumphed  over  ambitious  desire,  and  he  resolutely  refused 
to  leave  his  benefactor,  for  the  protection  of  the  haughty 
stranger. 

"  He  refuses !"  exclaimed  the  gentleman,  when  informed 
by  Mr.  Mason  of  the  boy's  obstinate  determination.  "  The 
ungrateful  little  wretch  !  well,  let  him  stay  and  be  a  tanner,  if 
he  will.  I  would  have  done  something  for  him,  but  now " 

Here  he  uttered  a  blistering  oath,  and  departed. 

Years  passed  on.  The  self-education  of  Howard  continued, 
marked  by  the  most  astonishing  results.  The  little  Alice 
was  grown  to  be  a  lovely,  affectionate  child,  no  longer  requir- 
ing of  him  the  cares  of  a  nurse,  though  still  clinging  to  him 
with  more  than  sisterly  affection.  Nothing  more  was  heard 
of  the  stranger,  who  had  so  singularly  crossed  his  path.  There 
were  times  when  the  boy  felt  the  "strong  necessity"  of  acquir- 
ing knowledge  urging  him  so  powerfully,  that  he  looked  back 
with  keen  regret  upon  the  unaccountable  moral  antipathy, 


HOWARD.  161 

that  had  led  him  to  reject  an  offer  which  would  have  placed 
him  in  that  station  of  life,  an  inner  voice  told  him  he  was 
born  to  fill.  As  he  grew  older,  the  difference  between  his 
own  nature  and  those  around  him  became  more  and  more  ap- 
parent, and  discontent,  which  he  deemed  ingratitude,  prayed 
upon  his  heart.  He  assisted  Mr.  Mason  in  the  labours  of  the 
tannery,  with  all  the  zeal  of  which  he  was  possessed,  but  his 
frame  was  slender,  and  what  little  strength  he  had  was  con- 
sumed by  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge — a  mental  fever, 
that  became  more  and  more  burning  and  intense.  A  number 
of  literary  gentlemen,  who  heard  of  the  extraordinary  appren- 
tice boy  of  the  tanner,  at  length  came  to  see  him,  and  through 
their  influence,  he  obtained  admission  into  one  of  the  collegiate 
institutions  of  New  England. 

He  left  the  humble  home,  where  he  had  been  so  kindly 
sheltered,  with  many  tears,  but  kindling  hopes.  Alice,  the 
pretty  and  affectionate  Alice,  was  inconsolable  at  his  departure, 
but  he  promised  to  return  every  vacation  and  teach  her  all  he 
learned. 

Poor,  poor  boy  !  how  little  he  knew  the  future  which 
stretched  out  before  him,  a  green,  enchanted  land.  The  home 
he  left  was  a  Paradise  to  the  one  which  now  received  him. 
He  knew  not  the  conditions  on  which  he  was  permitted  to 
receive  the  droppings  of  this  sanctuary  of  leaning,  where  he 
hailed  with  rapture  the  dawh  of  his  literary  Millennium.  He 
was  compelled  to  perform  the  most  servile  offices  for  the  other 
students,  as  the  wages  of  his  own  instruction.  He  carried 
wood  and  water  up  the  high  and  winding  stairs,  usually  found 
in  such  buildings,  till  his  frame,  which,  as  we  have  said  before, 
was  anything  but  robust,  bowed  beneath  the  burden,  and  his 
spirit  groaned  under  the  Egyptian  bondage  of  his  destiny. 
Still  he  toiled  over  his  scholastic  duties,  till  he  distanced  all 
his  competitors  in  the  literary  career  on  which  he  had  entered 
with  such  soaring  ambition. 

At  last,  in  an  auspicious  moment,  he  became  acquainted 
with  some  students  of  Harvard  University,  and  learned  with 
rapture,  that  he  might  there  be  received  into  the  cherishing 
arras  of  the  Alma  Mater,  freely  and  unconditionally,  without 
any  of  those  depressing  circumstances  which  weighed  him 
down  with  a  consciousness  of  degradation.  He  sought  those 
groves  sacred  to  science,  and  he  was  welcomed — as  the  child 
of  genius  and  want  is  ever  welcomed  there — as  a  son  and  a 


162  HOWARD. 

brother.  Here  his  heart  was  warmed,  his  mind  expanded,  his 
views  elevated. 

He  became  the  candidate  for  the  highest  collegiate  honours, 
and  so  great  was  the  love  and  admiration  of  his  classmates, 
they  would  gladly  have  woven  with  their  own  hands,  the 
laurels  which  were  soon  to  decorate  his  brow. 

But  while  thus  gaining  friends  and  admirers  among  the 
wealthy  and  noble,  he  did  not  forget  his  early  benefactors,  his 
sweet  foster  sister.  Most  of  his  vacations  were  passed  at  the 
humble  home  of  his  childhood,  and  he  fulfilled  his  promise  to 
Alice  of  imparting  to  her,  as  far  as  possible,  the  information 
he  acquired.  In  summer,  he  would  lead  her  to  the  green 
bowers,  where  he  used  to  sit  with  her,  when,  an  unconscious 
infant,  she  lay  upon  the  grass  or  nestled  in  his  arms,  and  read 
with  her  the  pages  where  genius  had  impressed  its  burning 
lines.  Child  as  she  was,  he  never  looked  forward  into  life, 
without  associating  her  with  all  its  hopes  and  all  its  joys. 
Should  he  become  distinguished  in  any  of  the  great  paths 
opened  to  the  sons  of  ambition,  she  should  be  his  companion, 
sister,  or  something  dearer  still — and  the  child,  though  she 
dreamed  not  of  his  future  visions,  read,  studied,  thought,  and 
felt,  with  reference  only  to  him. 

But  poor  Howard  did  not  always  find  his  path  strewed  with 
roses.  In  spite  of  the  most  rigid  economy,  he  could  not  help 
running  in  debt.  He  had  no  means  to  meet  the  demands 
against  him,  and  he  knew  not  where  to  turn  for  assistance. 
He  could  not  drain  the  purse  of  the  good  tanner,  the  father 
of  Alice.  He  shrank  from  the  thought  of  taxing  the  kind- 
ness of  his  classmates — for  he  was  proud — because  he  was 
poor. 

One  evening  he  sat  down  in  the  loneliness  of  his  chamber, 
with  a  heavy  heart.  His  head  ached  with  the  burden  of  great 
thoughts,  his  spirit  with  the  burden  of  destiny. 

He  thought  of  the  past  with  bitterness,  of  the  future  with 
despair.  He  remembered  the  apparently  munificent,  but 
haughty  stranger.  As  he  had  grown  older,  something  had 
whispered  to  him  the  secret  of  the  stranger's  interest.  He 
had  an  instinctive  conviction  that  he  was  his  own  father,  who, 
having  left  his  infancy  to  destitution,  refusing  him  even  the 
dignity  of  a  name,  perhaps  urged  by  an  importunate  conscience, 
was  willing  to  receive  as  a  dependent  on  his  bounty,  one  whom 
fehame  prevented  from  acknowledging  as  his  son.  Never  had 
be  felt  so  deeply  the  wrong  and  injustice  inflicted  upon  him— 


HOWARD.  163 

by  being  defrauded  of  the  holiest  rights  of  nature  ;  never  had 
he  felt  such  inappeasable  heart-yearnings. 

Oh  !  for  a  mother's  bosom  on  which  to  pillow  his  aching 
heart — a  sister's  fond  arms  to  twine  him  with  one  dear  caress  ! 
What  was  literature,  fame,  honour,  to  him  ?  Who  would  exult 
in  his  success,  or  glory  in  his  renown  ?  A  gentle  child 
appeared  to  glide  before  him  ;  a  child  in  the  first,  tender  bloom 
of  girlhood;  and  fixing  on  him  her  soft,  loving  eyes,  seemed 
to  say — "  Have  you  forgotten  Alice  ?" 

At  the  remembrance  of  Alice,  his  poverty  pressed  upon  him 
with  a  crushing  weight.  He  tried  to  banish  her  from  his 
thoughts. 

At  length  he  remembered  Him,  who  feedeth  the  young 
ravens  when  they  cry,  and  took  up  his  Bible,  which  lay  before 
him,  and  on  which  he  had  just  pillowed  his  aching  temples. 
He  turned  to  the  forty-second  Psalin ;  and  when  he  came  to 
the  fifth  verse, 

"Why  art  thou  cast  down,  0  my  soul?  and  why  art  thou 
disquieted  within  me  ?  Hope  thou  in  God  !  for  I  shall  yet 
praise  him,  who  is  the  help  of  my  countenance  and  my  God  !" 
he  read  it  aloud,  in  devout  and  trembling  accents. 

"  Forgive  me,  0  my  God,"  he  cried,  lifting  the  Bible  up- 
ward, as  if  he  would  make  it  the  wings  of  his  soul,  when  a 
shower  of  bank  notes  fell  from  the  fluttering  leaves,  as  if  the 
divine  pages  were  suddenly  animated  by  a  living  spirit  of  bene- 
volence. The  collegians,  conscious  of  his  necessities,  and  know- 
ing too  his  evening  custom  of  reading  the  word  of  God,  had 
adopted  this  method  of  relieving  his  wants,  without  wounding 
his  pride.  Sinking  on  his  knees,  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude, 
he  accepted  the  bounty  as  from  the  hand  of  Providence, 
and  the  dark  cloud  of  despondency  passed  away  from  his 
soul. 

So  onward  he  urged  his  course — upward  and  onward — 
cheered  by  friendship,  inspired  by  hope,  warmed  by  zeal,  lifted 
by  ambition,  and  more  than  all,  sustained  and  sanctified  by 
religion.  From  the  bright  promises  of  such  a  youth,  what  a 
glorious  manhood  might  not  be  anticipated  !  But  alas  !  the 
scourge  of  New-England  came  on  the  wings  of  the  chill  eastern 
blast,  and  marked  him  as  its  victim.  The  eyes,  which  had 
been  the  lamps  of  science,  now  burned  with  consumption's 
wasting  fire — its  dry,  hectic  cough  checked  the  clear,  impas- 
sioned utterance,  and  its  slow  agonies  arrested  the  elastic  and 
buoyant  step.  It  was  hard  to  die  thus  in  the  day-spring  of  his 


164  HOWARD. 

fame.  He  had  just  reached  that  height  from  which  he  could  look 
down  and  back  upon  the  rough  ascent  he  had  climbed,  and  see 
the  green  fields  and  magnificent  plains  stretching  beyond.  He 
could  hear  the  music  of  the  distant  waters  as  they  gushed  and 
sparkled  in  the  sun.  As  Moses  gazed  from  the  summit  of 
Mount  Pisgah,  on  that  promised  land  he  must  never  be  per- 
mitted to  enter,  be  cast  his  yearning  eyes  upon  the  scene,  over 
which  the  curtain  of  death  was  slowly,  darkly  descending. 
Still  he  bowed  his  head  and  exclaimed:  "Even  so,  Father; 
for  so  it  seemeth  good  in  thy  sight." 

He  was  borne  to  his  early  home.  Alice,  his  child-love,  sat 
by  him,  as  of  old,  and  he  talked  to  her  of  heaven  and  heavenly 
things. 

Just  before  he  died,  he  learned  that  a  rich  and  proud  gen- 
tleman of  the  city  of  Boston,  had  left  him  the  heir  of  all  his 
fortune,  acknowledging  him  to  be  his  son,  with  his  last  breath. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  cried  the  dying  youth.  "  What  are  riches 
and  honours  to  one  on  the  threshold  of  the  eternal  world  ?" 

Yes,  it  was  too  late  for  him,  but  the  child  of  his  benefactors 
was  made  the  recipient  of  his  wealth,  and  he  was  thus  enabled 
to  pay  the  debt  of  gratitude.  His  spirit  still  walked  the  earth 
in  the  gentle  form  of  Alice,  who  was  indeed  one  of  the  minister- 
ing angels  sent  by  God,  to  let  mankind  see  of  whom  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven  is  made. 

Howard  died — but  his  memory  is  immortal.  His  name  is 
hallowed  in  Harvard's  venerable  walls.  It  is  associated  with 
all  that  is  best  and  brightest  and  most  worthy  of  emulation. 
His  monument  is  a  shrine  where  pale  genius  comes  to  worship 
and  gather  strength,  from  example,  to  struggle  with  the  ills  of 
destiny  and  the  will — to  be  victor  in  the  conflict.  For  Howard 
was  victorious,  though  he  died,  at  last,  a  victim  to  the  life- 
battle  which  he  had  undauntedly  fought.  He  gained  immor- 
tality— he  left  a  name — a  pure,  a  glorious  name — and  the  great 
purposes  of  his  being  were  accomplished. 

'Tis  not  where  wealth  uprears  its  pillared  dome, 
That  pilgrim  genius  finds  its  favourite  home — 
'Tis  not  where  grandeur  dwells,  rolls  the  deep  tide 
By  which  the  springs  of  science  are  supplied. 
The  mind  on  its  sublimest  pinions  soars, 
When  clouds  are  heaviest,  and  the  tempest  lowers ; 
And  from  its  eagle  eyrie,  in  the  skies, 
Smiles  on  the  dark  storms  that  below  it  rise. 


THE  BLACK  MASK. 


"No,  I  will  not  go  to-night,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  taking 
from  her  head  a  bandeau  of  pearls  and  tossing  it  into  the 
hands  of  her  attendant.  "  No,  I  will  not  go — I  am  weary 
most  of  all  of  talking  and  listening  to  nonsense.  I  will  stay 
at  home,  and  enjoy  the  supreme  luxuries  of  simplicity,  quiet, 
and  solitude.  Yes  !  solitude  !  for  dear  Mrs.  Channing  is  gone 
to  an  old-fashioned  tea-party,  and  you.  Elsie,  are  not  to  disturb 
me,  after  I  have  once  composed  myself  to  the  task  of  admiring 
myself,  by  myself." 

"  But  this  beautiful  dress  ?"  cried  her  obsequious  chamber- 
maid. 

"  Put  it  back  in  the  wardrobe." 

"These  pearls?" 

"  In  the  case." 

"  These  flowers  ?" 

"  Ah !  give  me  the  flowers.  TJir-y  are  beautiful,  they 
breathe  of  nature,  and  I  love  them.  Here,  take  this  heavy 
comb  from  my  hair,"  continued  the  capricious  beauty,  and 
then  shaking  her  hair  loosely  over  her  shoulders  and  untying 
the  bouquet,  she  twisted  the  flowers  into  a  careless  garland  and 
twined  it  round  her  head. 

"  And  now,  Elsie,  give  me  that  simple  white  robe,  fastened 
with  blue  ribbons.  You  must  confess  it  is  ten  thousand  tinus 
prettier  than  the  one  you  have  just  put  aside.  Ah,  me !  1 
wish  I  were  nothing  but  a  plain  country  lassie,  left  to  wander 
about  at  my  own  sweet  will." 

"  I  think  somebody  has  her  own  sweet  will  now,"  said  Elsie 
to  herself,  vexed  to  think  that  her  young  and  beautiful  mis- 
tress was  going  to  shut  herself  up  at  home,  instead  of  exhibit 
ing  herself  to  the  admiring  crowd. 

(165) 


166  THE    BLACK   MASK. 

"But  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  One,  when  he  calls  to  attend 
you  ?" 

"  Tell  him  I  cannot,  will  not  go  to-night." 

"  He  will  be  angry." 

"  I  care  not — but  he  is  too  stupid  to  be  angry.  Beside,  he 
has  no  cause,  for  I  gave  no  promise  to  accompany  him." 

Elsie,  who  was  accustomed  to  the  varying  moods  of  Blanche, 
sighed  as  she  put  away  the  beautiful  paraphernalia  of  fashion 
with  which  she  had  hoped  to  adorn  her  mistress  for  the  even- 
ing's fete,  while  Blanche,  telling  her  she  had  no  further  need 
of  her  services,  descended  to  the  little  room  she  called  her 
boudoir.  And  a  charming  little  room  it  was — a  perfect  bijou 
of  a  room — fitting  palace  for  a  fairy  queen.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  she  liked  sometimes  to  rest  on  that  soft,  blue-cushioned 
sofa,  and  look  around  on  all  the  exquisite  adornments  her  owu 
taste  had  selected.  Curtains  of  blue  damask,  her  favourite 
colour,  shaded  the  window ;  the  glass  doors  of  her  cabinet  were 
lined  with  the  same  cerulean  hue  j  and  even  the  figure's  of  the 
carpet  were  blue,  melting  oft"  in  a  background  of  white.  Little 
Cupids,  painted  in  fresco,  on  the  ceiling,  seemed  to  fan  her 
with  their  wings,  and  Cupids  still  smaller,  fashioned  of  marble, 
supported  the  lamps  that  glittered  on  the  mantel-piece.  There 
were  ever  so  many  Cupids,  little,  less,  least,  bronze,  porcelain, 
and  glass,  on  the  shelves  of  the  etagere,  which  looked  like  a 
royal  baby-house,  with  its  magical  toys  and  indescribable  cu- 
riosities. The  only  thing  of  use  on  which  the  eye  could  rest 
was  a  magnificent  harp,  supported  by  a  lazy-looking  Cupid, 
lurking  in  the  corner  of  the  apartment,  thus  throwing  the 
illusion  of  mythology  and  poetry  over  an  instrument  in  itself 
most  poetical  and  romantic.  Blanche  gathered  back  the  azure 
folds  of  the  curtains  into  the  gilded  hands  that  issued  from  the 
walls,  ready  to  grasp  them,  drew  the  light  sofa  near  the  win- 
dow, and  seating  herself  upon  it,  looked  admirably  in  keeping 
with  all  surrounding  objects.  She,  too,  wore  the  livery  of 
white  and  blue,  and  soft  and  bright  sparkled  her  bright  blue 
eyes  beneath  her  white  brow.  Her  heart,  moreover,  was 
clothed  with  the  whiteness  of  innocence,  and  the  blue  of  hope 
fluttered  gayly  as  a  silken  ribbon  over  a  spotless  surface. 
Though  the  child  of  wealth,  and  the  idol  of  fashion,  she  was 
yet  unspoiled  by  their  influence.  Her  caprices  were  white, 
fleecy  clouds,  floating  over  the  clear  blue  of  an  April  morning. 
One  thing  more  completed  the  livery.  Blanche,  sweet,  charm- 
ing, capricious,  blue-eyed  Blanche,  with  sorrow  we  confess  it, 


THE  BLACK   MASK.  167 

had  a  tinge  of  the  "blues.  Listen  to  her  thoughts,  as  they 
move  with  their  low  whispers  the  folds  of  her  muslin  robe : — 

"  I  want  to  be  alone,  and  yet  I  want  some  one  near  to  whom 
I  can  say — '  How  sweet  it  is  to  be  alone/  The  pleasures  of 
society — how  I  panted  for  them  when  I  was  a  foolish  little 
school  girl,  pining  for  liberty  that  I  cannot  now  enjoy  !  And 
for  a  while,  I  did  enjoy  them  vividly,  wildly.  It  was  enrap- 
turing to  be  thought  beautiful,  to  be  admired  and  caressed  and 
loved.  Loved?  No.  I  have  never  yet  been  really  loved. 
Love  disdains  flattery  and  adulation.  My  own  heart  will  bear 
witness  when  it  is  true  and  honest.  'Yes/  added  she,  laying 
her  hand  on  its  gentle,  uniform  throbbing,  '  the  voice  has 
never  yet  breathed  into  my  ears  that  can  quicken  the  pulsa- 
tions of  this  heart  of  mine.  I  look  in  vain  among  the  cold, 
vapid  devotees  of  fashion  for  one  touch  of  nature,  one  flash 
of  passion.  I  shall  mingle  with  them  till  I  become  as  cold, 
as  vain,  as  vapid  myself.  I  shall  live  and  die,  and  the  world 
will  never  know  what  I  might  have  been,  from  what  I  am, 
and  what  I  shall  be." 

"  And  yet,"  added  the  ennuyee,  "  I  am  wrong  to  say  I  have 
never  yet  been  loved.  There  is  one  I  know,  who,  I  believe, 
loves  me  well,  and  whom  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  might 
love  in  return,  did  I  meet  him  anywhere  save  in  the  cold  halls 
of  fashion.  Could  he  throw  any  romance,  any  mystery  around 
him,  I  might  possibly  become  interested  in  him.  There 
would  be  nothing  heroic  or  self-sacrificing  in  my  loving  him, 
for  fortune  smiles  upon  him,  and  friends  are  zealous  to  pro- 
mote his  cause.  Were  he  poor,  I  could  enrich  him  with  my 
wealth.  Were  he  lowly,  I  could  ennoble  him  with  my  con- 
nexions ;  or  were  /  poor  and  lowly,  he  could  prove  the  disin- 
terestedness of  his  attachment.  I  cannot  bear  this  common- 
place kind  of  wooing,  this  dull,  matter-of-fact  kind  of  existence. 
I  could  envy  the  wild  love  of  O'Connor's  child,  '  the  bud  of 
Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory,'  though  thrice-dyed  in  blood  was 
the  tissue  of  her  mournful  story." 

If  the  remarks  of  Blanche  seem  incoherent,  let  it  be  re- 
membered that  she  is  conversing  with  herself,  and  every  one 
knows  how  wildly  the  thoughts  may  run,  when  imagination  is 
let  loose. 

"  Lot  me  see,"  said  the  romantic  damsel ;  "  cannot  I  do 
something  to  charm  the  solitude  that  already  begins  to  weary 
me  ?  Ah,  there  is  my  harp  ;  I  do  love  its  sounding  strains. 
How  charming  it  would  be  to  have  some  young  hero  bending 


168  THE  BLACK   MASK. 

over  me  as  I  play,  while  I  drank  in  inspiration  from  his  kin- 
dling eyes !" 

Drawing  the  harp  near  her,  she  passed  her  hand  over  its 
golden  chords,  and  made  a  sweet  wild  medley  of  strains,  caught 
up  from  many  a  remembered  song.  Her  hair,  as  it  swept  over 
her  white  arms,  against  the  glittering  wires,  resembled  the 
golden  locks  of  the  maiden  whose  ringlets  were  twined  into 
the  chords,  from  which  such  exquisite  music  has  been  drawn. 
Long  she  played  and  sang,  till  the  little  Cupids  on  the  walls 
looked  as  if  they  were  flying  about  inspired  by  her  thrilling 
notes.  She  did  not  hear  the  sound  of  entering  footsteps ;  but 
a  shadow  fell  upon  the  harp,  and  she  looked  up.  A  tall  dark 
figure  stood  before  her,  black  from  head  to  foot.  Supposing 
it  a  negro  who  had  thus  boldly  intruded  into  her  presence, 
she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  terror,  and  sprang  towards  the 
door. 

"  Pardon  this  intrusion,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  gentle  voice, 
bowing  gracefully  as  he  spoke ;  "  I  did  not  mean  to  terrify, 
and  if  you  will  grant  me  a  few  moments'  audience,  you  will 
find  you  have  no  cause  of  fear." 

She  observed  with  astonishment,  that  the  hand  which  be 
slightly  extended  in  speaking  was  almost  as  fair  as  her  own, 
while  his  face  was  as  black  as  night.  Still  trembling  with  ter- 
ror, though  somewhat  re-assured  by  the  sweetness  of  his  voice, 
she  ventured  to  look  on  him  more  steadfastly,  and  disco vered 
that  he  wore  a  mask  of  black  enamel,  above  which  his  raven 
black  hair  clustered,  making  of  the  head  one  ebon  mass. 

"  How  did  you  gain  admittance  ?"  she  asked,  tremulously. 
"  And  what  is  your  errand  with  me  ?" 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,"  he  answered,  "  when  I  gay,  that, 
attracted  by  the  sweetness  of  your  voice,  as  it  was  borne 
through  the  open  windows,  by  the  breath  of  night,  I  have 
dared  to  present  myself  before  you,  believing  that  the  same 
instinct  which  caused  my  presumption  will  plead  for  iny  pardon, 
and  secure  my  welcome." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  her  cheek  glowing  with 
anger,  "  this  is  an  intrusion  I  consider  unpardonable.  As 
neither  pardon  nor  welcome  awaits  you  here,  I  trust  you  will 
leave  me  immediately.  To  a  gentleman,  the  request  of  a  lady 
has  the  authority  of  a  command." 

Blanche  was  astonished  at  her  own  courage  in  thus  daring 
to  address  the  masked  and  mysterious  stranger.  Though 
angry  at  his  presumption,  she  could  not  repress  a  keen  delight 


THE   BLACK   MASK.  169 

at  an  adventure  so  singular  and  romantic.  The  indescribable 
charm  of  his  voice  ha&  disarmed  her  terror,  and  the  grace  and 
dignity  of  his  mien  spoke  the  polished  and  high-bred  gentle- 
man. But  the  black  mask — the  sudden  entrance — the  lonely 
hour — the  stillness  of  the  night — these  things  pressed  upou 
her  heart,  and  its  throbbings  became  quick  and  loud. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the  stranger,  "  before  I  depart,  to  repay 
you,  if  possible,  for  the  soothing  pleasure  your  music  has  im- 
parted. I,  too,  am  a  son  of  song,  and  like  the  bards  of  Os- 
sian,  I  love  to  wake  the  breezy  melody  of  the  harp-string." 

While  he  was  speaking,  he  approached  the  instrument  from 
which  she  had  retreated  at  his  entrance,  and  kneeling  on  one 
knee,  he  swept  his  hands  over  the  chords,  making  a  prelude 
of  such  surpassing  sweetness,  she  held  her  breath  to  listen 
Then  mingling  with  the  diapason  the  rich  tones  of  his  voice, 
he  began  a  song  whose  words  seemed  the  improvisation  of 
genius,  for  they  applied  to  herself,  the  hour,  the  meeting,  in 
strains  of  such  wondrous  melody,  she  felt  under  the  dominion 
of  enchantment.  Never  before  had  she  heard  such  music  as 
came  gushing  through  that  ebon  mask,  filling  the  room  with 
a  flood  of  harmony  which  almost  drowned  her  sinking  spirit. 
Unable  to  bear  up  under  the  new  and  overpowering  emotions 
that  were  oppressing  her,  she  sunk  back  on  the  sofa,  and  tears 
stole  from  her  downcast  eyes. 

The  stranger  paused,  and  rising,  leaned  gracefully  on  the 
harp  from  which  he  had  been  calling  forth  such  celestial 
notes. 

"  You  weep,"  said  he ;  "  but  they  are  not  tears  of  sorrow. 
You  would  not  exchange  those  tears  for  the  false  smiles  which 
would  have  gilded  your  face  had  you  mingled  in  the  crowd, 
an  instinct  of  your  heart  led  you  this  night  to  avoid.  You 
shunned  the  giddy  throng.  You  sought  the  solitude  of  this 
delicious  apartment  only  that  you  might  meet  a  kindred  spirit 
here.  Farewell!  we  shall  meet  again.  No  earthly  barrier 
could  now  keep  us  asunder." 

Stooping  down  and  picking  up  a  rose  that  had  fallen  from 
her  hair,  and  putting  it  in  his  bosom,  he  added — 

"  This  flower  shall  be  sent  to  you  as  a  token  when  I  am  again 
near." 

He  turned,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  apartment,  when, 
urged  by  irresistible  curiosity,  she  exclaimed — 

"  Before  you  depart,  let  me  behold  the  face  of  my  mysteri- 

128 


170  THE   BLACK   MASK. 

ous  friend,  and  tell  me  why  you  wear  so  strange  and  solemn  a 
disguise." 

"  I  cannot  break  a  vow  that  I  have  imposed  on  myself,"  re- 
plied the  black-masked  stranger.  "  It  is  only  at  the  nuptial 
altar  that  I  can  lift  the  dark  visor  which  conceals  my  features. 
The  woman  who  can  love  me  well  enough  to  unite  her  fate 
r  with  mine,  unknowing  what  this  mask  conceals,  whether  it  be 
matchless  beauty  or  unequalled  deformity,  will  alone  have 
power  to  remove  the  disguise  whose  midnight  shadow  now 
darkens  the  moonlight  of  your  beauty.  Do  you  believe  that 
spiritual,  high-souled,  trusting  woman  exists  ?  Do  you  believe 
such  love  can  be  found  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  love,"  she  answered,  endeavouring  to 
speak  coldly;  but  her  voice  unconsciously  obeyed  the  spell 
that  was  upon  her,  and  its  modulations  were  soft  as  the  breath- 
ings of  her  own  dulcet  harp. 

"  Happy  is  he  who  will  teach  thee  its  divine  lore,"  said  the 
stranger,  again  seating  himself  by  her  side.  "0,  maiden, 
more  beautiful  than  the  dream  of  the  poet,  more  pure  than 
the  vision  of  infancy,"  continued  he,  in  a  strain  of  romantic 
enthusiasm,  such  as  she  never  had  expected  to  hear  from  mor- 
tal lips,  "  be  it  mine  to  instil  this  wisdom  into  the  heart  that 
is  even  now  sighing  to  receive  it.  Mine  be  the  master  hand 
that  will  touch  the  golden  chords  of  sympathy,  and  awaken 
all  your  slumbering  being  to  the  music  of  love." 

"  0,  that  I  dared  to  believe,  that  I  dared  to  listen  I"  cried 
Blanche,  carried  out  of  herself  by  an  influence  that  seemed 
electric ;  "  but  this  interview,  so  sudden,  so  mysterious,  your 
strange  vow,  your  dark  eclipse,  the  commanding  power  you 
exert  over  my  will — ah,  leave  me.  I  cannot  bear  the  oppres- 
sion that  is  weighing  down  my  heart." 

"  I  obey  you,"  he  cried,  again  rising.  "  For  worlds,  I  would 
not  encroach  on  the  goodness  that  has  forgiven  my  presump- 
tion, or  the  gentleness  and  sensibility  that  plead  even  now, 
with  eloquent  tongue,  the  cause  of  your  mysterious  friend. 
Farewell.  For  the  rose  of  which  I  have  robbed  you,  accept 
this  diamond  ring." 

Taking  her  hand  and  encircling  her  finger  with  the  brilliant 
token,  he  passed  through  the  door  like  a  vision  of  night,  leav- 
ing her  speechless  and  spell-bound.  So  startling,  so  thrilling 
was  the  pressure,  she  sat  like  one  in  a  nightmare.  She  had 
almost  imagined  herself  in  a  dream,  in  the  presence  of  her 
•  mysterious  guest ;  but  the  warm,  soft  pressure  of  that  ungloved 


THE   BLACK   MASK.  171 

hand  assured  her  of  the  reality  of  the  scene.  Then  the  ring 
that  glittered  on  her  finger  with  such  surpassing  brightness, 
the  golden  circle  with  its  starlike  gein  that  seemed  to  burn  into 
her  flesh,  so  strongly  did  it  warm  and  accelerate  the  current 
that  was  glowing  and  rushing  through  her  veins  !  Astonished, 
bewildered,  terrified,  but  charmed  at  a  romance  so  exceeding 
her  wildest  hopes,  she  flew  up  stairs  to  her  dressing-room, 
where  Elsie  sat  slumbering  in  an  easy  chair,  thus  beguiling 
the  time  of  her  mistress's  absence.  Blanche  had  always  made 
a  confidant  of  Elsie,  and  now  her  heart  would  have  burst  with 
its  strange  secret  if  she  could  not  have  confided  it  to  another. 
She  awoke  the  slumbering  girl,  and  related  the  astonishing, 
the  almost  incredible  incident. 

"  Impossible  !"  cried  Elsie ;  "  it  must  have  been  a  delusion 
of  the  senses." 

"  But  this  ring — this  surely  is  a  reality.  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  surpassingly  brilliant  ?"  and  she  turned  the 
radiant  token  till  it  flashed  back  the  lamplight  dazzlingly  into 
the  wondering  eyes  of  the  girl. 

"  0,  for  the  love  of  the  blessed  Virgin  I"  she  exclaimed 
(Elsie  was  a  devout  Catholic,)  "  for  the  love  of  your  own  sweet 
soul,  don't  wear  it.  It  is  a  magic  ring,  I  am  sure,  and  the 
black  man  that  put  it  there  may  be  Lucifer  himself,  for  aught 
you  know." 

"  My  good  Elsie,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish  and  superstitious  ? 
Even  if  I  could  believe  in  the  incarnation  of  an  evil  spirit,  it 
never  could  assume  a  form  so  gracious,  or  speak  in  a  voice  so 
sweet.  0,  never  did  I  hear  such  a  voice  of  music !  Though 
I  could  not  see  his  face,  his  eyes  beamed  resplendentljr 
through  his  mask,  and  his  hand  is  the  fairest  I  ever  beheld." 

"  But  why  should  he  put  on  that  ugly  mask,  unless  he  has 
some  evil  purpose  ?" 

"  He  is  under  a  vow  to  wear  it  till" 

Blanche  paused  and  blushed,  and  then  blushed  more  pain- 
fully, because  she  was  so  foolish  as  to  blush  at  all. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  wears  it  to  cover  some  horrible  mark,1' 
cried  Elsie,  shuddering  and  crossing  herself. 

"  Impossible." 

"  I  dare  say  he  has  the  face  of  a  skeleton  underneath.  I 
have  heard  of  such  things." 

"  Silence,  Elsie ;  it  is  sacrilege  to  talk  as  you  do." 

Bat  though  Elsie  bridled  her  tongue,  the  disagreeable  im- 
pression her  words  had  produced  still  remained.  The  possibility 


172  THE  BLACK   MASK. 

of  their  truth  chilled  the  glowing  romance  of  Blanche's  feelinars, 
and  checked  the  enthusiasm  with  which  remembrance  dwelt 
on  her  mysterious  visiter.  Blanche  bound  Elsie  by  a  promise 
not  to  mention  the  incident  to  Mrs.  Channing,  the  lady  who 
acted  as  maternal  guardian  to  the  orphan  Blanche,  and  pre- 
sided over  the  mansion  of  her  youthful  charge.  All  the  next 
day  Blanche  remained  in  a  kind  of  dreamy  abstraction,  the 
colour  coming  and  going  on  her  beautiful  cheek,  and  her  soft 
blue  eyes  suffused  with  a  misty  languor.  Sometimes  she  de- 
lighted herself  in  picturing  the  features  that  the  shrouding 
mask  concealed  as  the  ideal  of  manly  beauty;  then  again  the 
horrible  suggestions  of  Elsie  would  recur  to  her  and  fill  her 
with  nameless  apprehensions.  She  thought  of  the  veiled 
Prophet  of  Khorassan,  the  doom  of  the  helpless  Zelica,  and 
the  unutterable  horrors  concealed  by  the  silver  veil.  Ske  re- 
membered the  beautiful  Leonora,  and  the  phantom  horseman, 
whose  skeleton  visage  was  hidden  by  the  tlosed  bars  of  his 
visor,  and  who  bore  his  confiding  bride  to  the  ghastly  church- 
yard and  the  yawning  grave.  She  remembered  that  his  form 
wore  the  semblance  of  manly  grace,  and  that  his  voice  had  a 
tone  of  more  than  earthly  sweetness. 

tl  How  foolish,  how  childish  I  am  !"  thought  she,  smiling  at 
th<>  superstitious  images  on  which  she  had  been  dwelling. 
"The  silver-veiled  Mokanna  and  the  Phantom  Husband  of 
Leonora  were  beings  existing  only  in  the  imagination  of  the 
poet,  whom  the  genius  of  the  painter  has  also  delineated. 
But  the  black-masked  stranger  is  a  living,  breathing  actuality, 
of  whose  existence  and  presence  I  have  a  dazzling  token." 

Another  idea  disturbed  her  excited  brain.  Perhaps  she 
was  the  sport  of  some  bold  youth,  who,  knowing  her  romantic 
temperament,  had  thus  sought  to  play  upon  her  credulity 
aud  expose  her  to  the  ridicule  of  the  world.  So  strong  be- 
came this  conviction  that  when  evening  came  on,  and  she  wag 
summoned,  as  usual,  to  entertain  her  admiring  visiters,  she 
fancied  she  could  trace  in  many  forms  a  similitude  to  the  linea- 
ments of  the  graceful  stranger.  But  no.  It  was  an  illusion 
of  the  imagination.  No  figure  half  so  graceful,  no  voice  half 
so  sweet  as  his.  Never  had  the  conversation  of  her  companions 
seemed  half  so  uninteresting  and  commonplace,  never  had  the 
hours  appeared  so  long  and  leaden.  She  played  upon  her  harp, 
but  her  own  strains  recalled  the  ravishing  melody  of  his,  and 
her  hands  trembled  as  they  swept  the  sounding  strings.  She 
talked  and  smiled,  and  tried  to  chain  her  wandering  thoughts, 


THE   BLACK   MASK.  173 

but  they  would  stray  far  out  into  the  moonlight  night,  where 
fancy  followed  the  dark  form  of  the  stranger.  As  her  white 
hands  threaded  the  golden  wires,  the  diamond  ring  flashed 
upon  her  eye  its  ominous  splendours  and  filled  her  with  wild 
emotions. 

"  St.  Cecilia  called  down  an  angel  from  the  skies,"  said  one 
of  her  guests,  gazing  upon  the  gem  that  confiscated  upon  her 
finger,  "  but  you  seem  to  have  drawn  one  of  the  stars  of  heaven 
from  its  home  in  the  skies,  to  sparkle  upon  your  hand.  There 
must  be  a  magic  in  that  ring,  for  never  did  your  harp  discourse 
such  witching  music." 

Blanche  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  her  conscious  blushes, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  words  of  Elsie,  foolish  and  supersti- 
tious as  they  were,  occurred  to  her,  and  the  roseate  cloud 
melted  away  in  the  whiteness  of  snow. 

One  by  one  her  guests  departed,  and  she  was  left  alone. 
She  listened  to  the  echo  of  their  departing  footsteps,  till  the 
stillness  of  death  pervaded  the  apartment.  She  could  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  quick  beatings  of  her  heart,  and  her  robe 
fluttered  as  visibly  over  its  palpitations  as  the  azure  curtains 
rustling  in  the  soft  breath  of  night. 

"  Why  do  I  linger  here  ?"  said  she,  looking  out  into  the 
calm  majesty  and  loveliness  of  a  cloudless  evening.  "I  will 
not  remain,  as  if  seeking  an  interview  with  one  whose  fascina- 
tions, I  feel,  I  never  could  resist.  Where  there  is  mystery, 
there  is  always  danger.  I  thank  my  guardian  angel  for  whis- 
pering this  caution  to  my  heart." 

At  this  moment,  something  flew  like  a  light-winged  bird  by 
her  cheek,  and  fell  rustling  at  her  feet.  It  was  something 
enveloped  in  a  soft,  white  tissue.  She  opened  it  and  beheld 
her  own  faded  rose ;  while  she  gazed  with  mingled  shame  and 
delight  on  the  sweet  but  wilted  token,  the  soft  sound  of  enter- 
ing footsteps  met  her  ear,  and  the  tall,  black-masked  stranger 
stood  before  her. 

She  no  longer  feared  him.  She  even  welcomed  his  approach 
with  a  strange  rapture,  that  sent  the  warm  blood  bounding 
through  her  veins  and  eddying  in  her  cheeks.  He  sat  down 
by  her  side,  and  his  low,  sweet,  mellow  voice  uttered  words  of 
wondrous  fascination.  She  listened  like  one  entranced,  forget- 
ting the  fate  of  Zelica  and  the  doom  of  Leonora.  Indeed,  had  she 
known  that  the  same  dark  destiny  awaited  her,  she  could  not 
have  broken  the  spell  that  enthralled  her.  For  hours  he  lin- 
gered at  her  side,  while  his  eyes,  like  stars  shining  through 


174  THE   BLACK   MASK. 

a  midnight  cloud,  were  beaming  with  mysterious  spendour  upon, 
her  brow.  Her  will  bowed  before  his  mighty  will,  and,  ere 
she  was  aware  of  the  act,  she  had  sealed  her  heart's  warrant 
for  life  or  death.  She  had  consented  to  follow  him  to  the  altar, 
and  unveil  with  her  rash  and  daring  hand  the  brow  now  covered 
with  so  dark  an  eclipse. 

"  You  love  me,"  cried  the  stranger,  while  his  voice  trembled 
with  ecstasy;  "you  love  me,  with  that  pure,  spiritual  love, 
which,  born  on  earth,  is  but  a  type  of  an  immortal  wedlock. 
You  will  love  me  still,  whatever  be  the  features  this  gloomy 
mask  conceals.  Be  they  those  of  a  fiend,  you  will  not  love 
me  less.  Be  they  those  of  an  angel,  you  will  not  love  me 
more." 

And  Blanche  bowed  her  fair  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  was 
constrained  to  utter — 

"Angel  or  fiend,  I  must  love  thee  still." 

"To-morrow,  then,  at  this  hour,  I  shall  come  and  claim 
thee  for  my  bride.  Nay,  speak  not  of  delay,  for  my  destiny 
must  be  fulfilled.  You  shall  know  when  I  am  near,  but  not 
by  this  faded  token.  The  pledge  of  my  couiiug  shall  breathe 
of  life,  and  joy,  and  hope." 

Pressing  her  hand  gracefully  to  his  heart,  he  disappeared, 
while  Blanche  trembled  and  wept  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
vow  she  had  plighted.  Released  from  the  magic  of  his  pre- 
sence, she  saw  her  rashness,  her  madness  and  infatuation,  in 
their  true  light.  She  felt  she  was  rushing  blindfold  to 
the  verge  of  perdition.  She  was  terrified  at  the  intensity  of 
her  emotions.  Better  were  it  for  her  heart  to  remain  in  the 
torpor  over  which  it  had  been  mourning,  than  awake  to  a  sense 
of  life  so  keen  as  almost  to  amount  to  agony.  She  was  like 
the  blind,  suddenly  restored  to  sicht,  with  a  flood  of  noonday 
glory  pouring  on  the  lately  darkened  vision.  She  was  faint- 
ing from  excess  of  light. 

Softly  she  ascended  to  her  chamber,  so  as  not  to  arouse  the 
sleeping  Elsie,  whose  remarks  she  now  dreaded  to  hear ;  but 
so  light  were  her  slumbers,  they  vanished  at  the  soft  rustle  of 
Blanche's  muslin  robe. 

"  I  saw  him,"  she  cried,  dispersing  the  mist  of  sleep  from 
her  eyelids ;  "  I  saw  him  from  the  window  as  he  entered,  and 
I  have  been  praying  the  blessed  Virgin  ever  since  to  shield  you 
from  harm." 

"  You  must  have  been  praying  in  your  sleep,  then,"  said 
Blanche. 


THE    BLACK   MASK.  175 

"  0,  dear  mistress,  do  not  see  him  again.  You  will  find  he 
is  some  murderer,  who  has  a  brand  on  his  forehead" 

"  Stop,  Elsie,"  cried  the  shuddering  Blanche.  "It  is 
slander.  I  will  not  permit  it." 

"  And,  besides,"  continued  the  persevering  girl,  "  I  dare 
say  the  barbarians  have  cut  off  his  nose  and  cropped  his  ears 
into  the  bargain.  People  never  hide  their  beauty  under  a 
mask." 

"Elsie,  leave  my  room,  if  you  cannot  be  silent,"  said 
Blanche,  with  rising  courage. 

Elsie  obeyed  her,  but  muttered  something  about  sulphur 
and  hoofs,  as  she  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  How  very  impertinent  Elsie  is  growing  !"  cried  Blanche, 
throwing  herself  weeping  upon  the  bed.  "But  how  can  I 
expect  to  retain  the  respect  of  a  maid,  when  I  have  forfeited 
my  own  self-esteem  ?  Alas  !  what  if  her  surmises  be  true ! 
What  if  the  brand  of  indelible  disgrace  be  stamped  upon  that 
brow  where  I  have  imagined  more  than  mortal  beauty  dwells  ! 
What  if,  instead  of  a  nose  which  Phidias  might  have  taken  as 
a  model  for  one  of  the  gods  of  Greece,  there  should  be  only  a 
frightful  cavity,  a  horrible  disfigurement !" 

Recoiling  at  the  awful  picture  Elsie's  fertile  imagination  had 
conjured,  she  spread  her  hands  before  her  face  to  shut  out  a 
vision  so  appalling.  It  was  strange — in  his  presence  she  had 
a  perfect  conviction  that  his  mask  concealed  the  face  of  an 
angel,  while  in  his  absence  the  conviction  faded,  and  the  most 
terrific  fancies  usurped  its  place  ! 

"  O,  that  I  could  recall  my  fatal  pledge !"  she  cried  to 
herself,  as  she  tossed  upon  her  restless  couch.  "  But  it  is 
given,  and  be  it  for  weal  or  woe,  I  must  abide  by  the  result." 

The  next  evening,  Mrs.  Channing,  the  kind,  maternal 
friend,  whom  Blanche  had  so  dearly  loved,  remained  by  her, 
as  if  drawn  towards  her  by  some  unusual  attraction.  Never 
had  she  been  so  tender,  so  affectionate.  Blanche  gazed  upon 
her  with  bitter  self-reproach,  thinking  how  ill  she  was  about 
to  requite  her  guardian  cares.  She  longed  to  throw  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  reveal  her  secret,  and  pray  her  to  save  her 
from  the  delusions  of  her  own  heart. 

"  I  fear  you  are  not  well,  my  sweet  child,"  said  the  lady, 
in  soothing  accents.  "  Indeed,  I  have  noticed,  all  day,  that 
you  have  looked  feverish  and  ill.  Do  not  sit  in  the  night  air, 
in  that  thin  dress,  too.  Why,  my  dear,  you  are  dressed  like 
a  bride.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  going  abroad  to- 


176  THE    BLACK   MASK. 

night.  I  fear  this  life  of  pleasure  will  wilt  the  roses  of  your 
youth" 

"  I  have  promised  to  go,"  she  said,  avoiding  the  glance  of 
her  friend,  "  and  I  cannot  break  my  word.  But  it  is  the  last 
time — indeed,  it  is  the  last." 

While  she  was  speaking  a  white  rose-bud  fell  at  her  feet. 

"  See,"  said  Mrs.  Channing,  smiling,  "  see  what  the  breeze 
has  blown  to  you.  It  must  be  a  token  of  happiness — fit  em- 
blem of  your  beauty  and  innocence." 

"  Do  you  think  it  a  token  of  happiness  ?"  cried  Blanche, 
eagerly  gathering  up  the  well-known  signal.  "  Thank  you  for 
the  words.  I  go  with  a  lighter  heart.  Farewell,  kindest  and 
best  of  friends.  Heaven  bless  you  for  ever  and  ever." 

Pressing  her  quivering  lips  on  the  placid  forehead  she  might 
never  again  behold,  she  glided  from  the  room.  She  dreaded 
meeting  Elsie,  but  was  compelled  to  go  to  her  chamber  for  her 
mantle  and  veil,  and  there  she  encountered  her  faithful  and 
remonstrating  friend.  When  Blanche,  with  a  face  as  pale  as 
marble,  threw  her  mantle  over  her  shoulders,  and  cast  a  light 
veil  over  her  golden  locks,  Elsie  seemed  to  divine  her  purpose, 
•  and  entreated  her  to  remain. 

"  0,  it  is  like  a  bride  you  are  dressed,"  she  cried,  "  with 
those  pearls  on  your  neck  and  arms,  and  that  beautiful  white 
rose-bud  on  your  bosom." 

Blanche  could  not  leave  her  faithful  attendant  without  some 
memorial  of  her  love.  Opening  her  jewel  case,  she  took  out 
a  costly  necklace  and  ring. 

"  Take  these,"  she  said,  "  as  a  memento  of  my  attachment, 
and  as  a  reward  for  your  fidelity.  Betray  me  not,  on  your 
soul's  life,  and  may  the  blessed  Virgin  you  worship  be  propi- 
tious to  you  as  you  are  true  to  me." 

Elsie  suffered  the  jewels  to  fall  from  her  hand,  and  casting 
herself  at  the  feet  of  Blanche,  she  wrapped  her  arms  about  her 
knees,  and  implored  her,  with  tears  and  sobs,  not  to  go  with 
that  dreadful  man. 

"  Release  me,"  cried  Blanche,  ready  to  faint  with  conflicting 
emotions.  "  Delay  me  not  a  moment  longer."  Then  snatch- 
ing her  mantle  from  her  grasp,  and  leaving  her  prostrate  and 
weeping  on  the  floor,  she  flew  down  stairs,  through  the  open 
door,  and  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  that  dark  and  nameless 
being,  to  whom  she  was  about  to  confide  herself  for  ever.  He 
bore  her,  almost  fainting,  into  a  carriage  that  was  waiting  at 
the  gate,  and  the  horses,  black  as  night,  started  off  at  a  furious 


THE    BLACK    MASK.  177 

speed.  They  left  the  crowded  city  far  behind  them,  and  rode 
out  into  the  open  fields,  where  the  moonbeams,  unobstructed 
by  high  granite  walls,  shone  resplendently  on  her  pallid  face 
and  the  polished  surface  of  his  enamel  mask. 

"Whither  are  you  bearing  me  ?"  she  faintly  asked,  as  the 
small  pebbles  flashed  fire  beneath  the  horses'  flying  hoofs. 

"  To  a  second  Eden,  where  love  immortal  blooms,"  he  an- 
swered, folding  her  close  to  his  heart.  Forward  they  went, 
with  the  same  bewildering  speed.  The  trees  swept  by  them, 
like  dark-green  spirits  in  a  rushing  dance.  Tall  monuments, 
gleaming  white  and  ghostly,  ghastly  and  cold,  shot  swiftly  by 
them  in  the  quivering  moonshine. 

"  0  !  whither  are  you  bearing  me  ?"  again  she  asked,  almost 
expecting  him  to  answer  : 

"  See  there,  see  here,  the  moon  shines  clear — 
Hurrah,  how  swiftly  speeds  the  dead  ?" 

"  I  am  bearing  you  to  the  gate  of  Heaven,"  he  replied  ;  "  for 
surely  the  house  of  God  is  such.  Far  away  in  the  deep  woods 
there  is  a  Gothic  church,  where  a  holy  priest  is  waiting  to 
crown  with  his  blessing  the  purest,  deepest  love  that  ever 
bound  two  trusting  hearts  in  one." 

"  0,  mine  is  all  the  trust !"  she  cried,  "  and  if  I  be  deceived, 
mine  will  be  all  the  woe." 

"  As  never  woman  thus  loved  and  trusted,"  he  passionately 
exclaimed,  "so  never  woman  was  so  supremely  blest  as  thou, 
my  soul's  beloved,  shalt  be  I" 

With  soothing  words  and  tender  protestations  and  impas- 
sioned vows  he  sustained  her  spirits,  and  beguiled  the  length 
of  their  moonlight  journey.  At  last  they  beheld  the  white 
walls  of  the  sacred  edifice  glimmering  through  the  dark,  silver- 
edged  foliage  of  the  trees  that  embosomed  it.  The  illuminated 
arches  of  the  lofty  windows  told  that  his  words  were  true,  and 
that  the  holy  father  there  awaited  for  the  bridegroom  and  the 
bride. 

"  Courage,  my  beloved,"  he  cried,  supporting  her  steps  into 
the  vestibule,  "  your  sublime  confidence  shall  soon  be  rewarded. 
If  it  wearies,  even  now,  I  will  restore  you  to  the  friends  you 
have  quitted  for  the  stranger's  love.  But  if  you  still  cling  to 
me  with  undoubting  faith  and  triumphant  affection,  come,  and 
the  powers  of  earth  cannot  rend  us  asunder." 

Blanche  placed  her  cold  hand  in  his.     Throwing  his  arm 


178  THE  BLACK   MASK. 

around  her,  he  led  her  towards  the  illuminated  altar,  where, 
clothed  in  his  white  robes,  with  the  crucifix  suspended  on  his 
breast,  the  man  of  God  was  standing.  Blanche  sank  upon  her 
knees  and  bowed  her  head,  till  it  touched  the  marble  steps  of 
the  altar.  At  this  moment,  as  if  touched  by  invisible  hands, 
the  deep  notes  of  the  organ  swelled  grandly  and  solemnly  on 
the  ear.  They  gradually  rose  to  the  full  altitude  of  the  lofty 
dome,  when,  rolling  along  the  arch,  gathering  volume  as  they 
rolled,  they  burst  over  the  altar  in  a  thunder-peal  of  melody, 
then  murmured  softly  away,  only  to  swell  again  in  the  same 
magnificent  epithalamium.  The  illuminated  church,  the  holy 
priest,  the  consecrated  altar,  and  the  grand  and  solemn  music, 
filled  the  soul  of  Blanche  with  devout  enthusiasm.  Her  con- 
fidence in  her  mysterious  bridegroom  deepened  and  strength- 
ened. He  knelt  at  her  side,  with  her  throbbing  hand  clasped 
in  his.  The  last  notes  of  the  organ  reverberated  on  the  ear, 
and  the  priest  commenced  the  solemn  ceremony.  So  intense 
was  her  agitation,  that  she  did  not  even  hear  the  name  of  the 
unknown  being — that  name  that  was  to  be  henceforth  her  own. 
She  did  not  know  when  the  rite  was  ended,  but  continued  with 
her  head  bowed  and  her  loosened  hair  sweeping  the  consecrated 
marble. 

"And  now,  my  beloved/'  said  the  divine  voice  that  had 
with  its  first  accent  captivated  her  soul,  "  the  hour  is  come 
which  releases  me  from  the  vow  breathed  in  the  presence  of 
this  man  of  God.  Remove  the  mask,  and  behold  the  features 
which,  whatever  form  they  bear,  are  beaming  with  immortal 
love  for  thee." 

Slowly  and  tremblingly  Blanche  raised  her  head,  and  turned 
towards  him,  as  be  knelt  on  the  lower  steps  of  the  altar,  and 
bent  till  his  sable  locks  waved  against  her  snowy  dress.  • 

And  now  the  moment  was  arrived  to  which  she  had  looked 
forward  with  such  wild  curiosity,  with  such  unutterable  hope 
and  dread.  Her  hand  refused  to  obey  the  impulse  of  her  pant- 
ing heart.  It  fell  almost  lifeless  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  thick 
mist  darkened  her  sight. 

"  Fear  not,  my  daughter,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  the  priest. 

«  Put  your  trust  in  Heaven,  and  shrink  not  from  the  destiny 

tbou  hast  chosen,  whatever  it  may  be.     As  faith  is  the  most 

ublime  of  Christian  virtues,  so  it  is  the  most  glorious  proof  of 

love." 

These  words  issuing  from  the  sacerdotal  lips,  that  had  so 
lately  blessed  her  as  a  bride,  gave  her  a  momentary  strength 


THE  BLACK   MASK.  179 

Her  fingers  passed  with  lingering  touch  through  the  luxuriant 
locks  that  waved  over  the  ribbon  which  confined  the  mask. 
As  she  unloosed  the  knot  and  he  gradually  began  to  raise  his 
bending  head,  before  she  had  caught  one  glimpse  of  those 
mysterious  features,  overcome  by  the  weight  of  concentrated 
emotions,  she  fell  lifeless  on  his  bosom. 

When  she  recovered  her  senses,  she  found  herself  lying 
quietly  on  the  carpet  of  her  boudoir,  by  the  side  of  her  over- 
turned harp,  whose  strings  were  yet  vibrating  from  the  sudden 
fall.  Elsie  was  standing  over  her  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand,  in 
convulsions  of  laughter. 

'*'  I  would  not  be  laughing  if  you  were  hurt,"  she  cried, 
setting  down  her  lamp  and  assisting  the  prostrate  beauty,  as 
well  as  her  shaking  muscles  would  allow,  to  resume  an  upright 
position.  "You  have  had  a  pleasant  nap  of  it,  leaning  against 
your  harp.  It  tumbled  before  I  could  catch  you,  or  you  would 
not  be  lying  here." 

"0!"  cried  Blanche,  sitting  up  and  rubbing  her  eyes,  "if  I 
had  only  had  one  glimpse  of  his  face  !" 


A  TALE  OF  THE  LAND  OF  FLOWERS. 

A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 


"Oh,  seldom  have  we  heard  a  tale, 
So  sad,  so  tender,  yet  so  true." 

THE  incidents  we  are  about  to.  relate  are  true,  but  feelings 
of  delicacy  induce  us  to  throw  a  veil  around  them,  by  substitu- 
ting fictitious  names.  This  is  all  the  fiction  connected  with 
the  sketch. , 

Emma  and  Lelia  Wayne  were  two  lovely,  fair-haired,  blue- 
eyed  girls,  just  blooming  into  womanhood.  They  seemed  the 
favourites  of  nature  and  of  fortune.  Their  father,  a  wealthy 
merchant,  was  one  of  the  most  affectionate  and  indulgent 
parents  in  the  world.  He  was  proud  of  his  fair,  sweet-faced 
daughters,  and  they  were  proud  of  him.  He  was  a  remark- 
ably handsome  man,  and  the  generous  qualities%  of  his  soul 
diffused  their  glow  and  lustre  over  his  countenance.  Their 
mother  was  an  invalid,  and  constantly  confined  to  her  room, 
but  her  gentleness  and  piety  made  her  chamber  seem  nearer 
Heaven,  than  any  other  apartment  in  the  house.  Wherever 
they  moved,  these  two  young  girls  breathed  an  atmosphere  of 
love,  and  diffused  it  around  them  as  they  moved. 

Emma,  the  eldest,  had  a  brighter  eye  and  a  deeper  bloom 
than  her  sister.  Her  smile  was  more  joyous,  her  step  more 
elastic,  and  her  voice  had  a  gayer  tone.  Lelia  had  one  of 
those  haunting  countenances  which  once  seen  is  remembered 
for  ever,  with  a  thrill  of  sadness,  too.  It  is  said  that  every 

(180) 


A   TALE   OF  THE   LAND  OF   FLOWERS.  181 

face  is  either  a  history  or  a  prophecy.  Lelia's  was  a  prophecy. 
She  had  large,  languishing,  mournful,  loving,  melting  eyes, 
that  looked  up  wistfully  through  long  lashes,  darker  than  her 
hair,  then  suddenly  drooped,  as  if  fearful  they  revealed  too 
much  of  what  was  passing  in  her  heart.  Her  mouth  was  very 
lovely,  but  a  shade  of  melancholy  hovered  round  its  roses.  A 
redundance  of  flaxen  hair,  always  simply  and  gracefully  ar- 
ranged, softened  the  outline  of  her  painfully  interesting  face. 
The  expression  may  seem  strange,  but  no  one  could  look  upon 
Lelia  without  feeling  that  she  was  born  to  love  and  to  suffer 
too  deeply.  As  yet  her  capacities  for  love  and  suffering  were 
undeveloped,  and  while  so  tenderly  shielded  by  parental  care, 
it  seemed  impossible  for  sorrow  or  disappointment  to  approach 
with  blighting  influence. 

Mr.  Wayne  did  not  wish  or  expect  to  keep  his  daughters 
from  marriage,  but  he  said  he  could  not  be  parted  from  them. 
Their  mother's  health  was  too  delicate  to  bear  the  shock  of 
separation.  Whoever  should  win  the  treasure  of  their  affec- 
tions must  consent  to  live  near  the  shadow  of  the  paternal  roof. 
It  was  not  long  before  Emma  married  a  promising  young  law- 
yer, and  was  established  in  an  elegant  mansion  contiguous  to 
her  home.  She  was  happy,  and  her  parents  were  happy  in 
this  union,  and  Lelia  tried  to  be  happy,  too,  but  she  felt  as  if 
a  stranger  had  come  between  her  and  the  bosom  companion  of 
her  childhood  and  youth.  Her  sister  could  never  be  to  her 
what  she  was  before,  and  she  sighed  at  the  thought  that  Emma 
loved  another  better  than  herself. 

Just  at  this  time  she 'became  acquainted  with  a  young  and 
gallant  officer,  with  laurels  gathered  in  the  "  land  of  flowers," 
blooming  on  his  youthful  brow.  There  was  a  grace,  a  gal- 
lantry, a  chivalry  in  his  manners  that  charmed  the  imagination 
of  the  romantic  and  tender  Lelia.  We  will  call  him  Clifford, 
not  wishing  to  make  use  of  his  real  name.  He  was  returning 
to  his  post  on  the  frontiers,  where,  with  numbers  of  his  brave 
countrymen,  he  was  engaged  in  defending  the  borders  from  the 
depredations  of  the  red  man — dangerous  and  protracted  war- 
fare! 

Young  Clifford  conceived  for  Lelia  Wayne  one  of  those  deep 
and  impassioned  attachments  which  once  in  a  while  break  in 
on  the  dull  routine  of  everyday  life.  The  military  character 
is  invested  with  a  peculiar  charm.  The  military  gentleman  is 
generally  graced  with  peculiarly  attractive  manners.  Lelia 
yielded  to  their  seductive  influence.  Her  large,  melancholy 


182  A   TALE   OF   THE   LAND   OF  FLOWERS. 

blue  eyeg  were  now  illuminated  with  the  light  of  love.  It  was 
like  the  moonbeams  shining  on  the  mist  of  the  valley,  and  trans- 
forming it  to  a  silvery  glory. 

Clifford  pressed  his  suit  with  characteristic  ardour.  With 
the  frankness  of  a  soldier,  he  declared  his  sentiments  to  Mr. 
Wayne,  and  asked  him  for  his  daughter,  assuring  him  that  his 
love  was  returned,  and  that  Lelia  had  authorized  him  to  entreat 
his  sanction  to  their  immediate  union.  Mr.  Wayne  turned 
pale  as  he  listened.  He  liked,  he  admired  the  young  man, 
but  he  could  not  consent  that  his  daughter  should  leave  him 
for  the  dark  and  stormy  scenes  to  which  his  duty  called  him 
to  return.  No  !  it  was  impossible.  It  would  kill  her  mother 
— it  would  make  himself  unspeakably  wretched.  It  must  not 
be.  Lelia  had  been  nurtured  in  the  lap  of  luxury.  She  had 
never  known  privation  or  care.  She  was  too  delicate  a  flower 
to  bloom  in  the  camp,  too  frail  to  be  exposed  to  the  unspeak- 
able horrors  of  Indian  warfare.  With  tenderness  and  feeling, 
yet  firmness  and  decision,  he  told  the  young  man  he  never, 
never  could  consent  to  their  union,  and  begged  him,  as  he 
valued  the  happiness  of  Lelia,  never  to  seek  her  presence 
again.  He  demanded  the  sacrifice  of  him,  but  Clifford  would 
not  promise  what  he  felt  he  had  not  the  power  to  perform. 
He  could  ^not  go  without  seeing  Lelia  once  more — and  that 
meeting  sealed  her  destiny.  Borne  down  by  the  weight  of 
her  love  and  sorrow,  she  rashly  consented  to  a  clandestine 
union.  At  the  house  of  a  mutual  friend,  who  imprudently 
promised  secrecy  and  aid,  the  ill-starred  marriage  was  con- 
summated, which  made  the  loving  and  affectionate  Lelia  an 
alien  from  her  father's  roof.  Mr.  Wayne,  justly  incensed,  re- 
fused to  see  his  disobedient  child,  but  the  invalid  mother 
yearned  over  her  lost  darling.  In  her  husband's  absence,  she 
sent  for  her  daughter,  who  wept  in  agony  on  her  bosom,  when 
she  saw  how  much  her  desertion  had  added  to  the  ravages  of 
disease,  on  that  pale  and  gentle  face.  Mrs.  Wayne  forgave 
and  blessed  her,  committed  her  to  the  care  and  mercy  of  her 
Heavenly  Father,  and  suffered  her  to  depart.  Never  more 
was  she  to  behold  that  fair,  young,  pensive  countenance.  The 
prophecy  written  on  her  brow  was  about  to  be  fulfilled. 

The  parting  with  her  sister  was  another  bitter  trial.  She 
began  to  realize  the  strength  of  the  ties  she  was  sundering. 
She  understood  for  the  first  time  the  metaphor  of  the  bleeding 
heart.  Could  she  but  see  her  father,  only  see  him,  herself 
unseen,  she  thought  she  would  feel  comparatively  happy,  and 


A  TALE    OP  THE  LAND   OF   FLOWERS.  183 

she  did  see  him  thus.  But  instead  of  feeling  happier,  her 
anguish  was  increased  by  her  remorse.  He  looked  so  pale,  so 
sad,  so  stern — looked  as  if  he  could  never  smile  again.  What 
an  ungrateful  return  she  had  made  for  his  tender,  his  guardian 
cares  !  She  had  forsaken  him  for  the  stranger  of  a  day.  She 
had  left  the  guide  of  her  youth.  Yet  even  in  the  midst  of  her 
sorrow  and  remorse,  she  exulted  in  the  mighty  sacrifice  she  was 
making  on  the  altar  of  love.  It  was  for  Clifford  she  was  en- 
during a  father's  just  resentment — it  was  for  Clifford  she  was 
leaving  a  loving  mother  and  tender  sister — home,  fortune, 
friends — and  she  loved  him  the  dearer  for  the  costly  price  she 
paid  for  his  love. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  a  traveller.  Born 
amid  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  West,  she  had  a  vivid  per- 
ception of  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime.  At  first  she  was 
incapable  of  doing  anything  but  look  back,  through  blinding 
tears,  on  her  native  city  and  its  picturesque  surroundings,  as 
the  boat  glided  down  the  noble  river,  on  whose  glassy  waves 
she  had  looked  down  so  many  years,  little  dreaming  she  would 
float  over  its  azure  bosom  a  discarded  daughter,  a  clandestine 
bride.  For  a  time  she  could  think  only  of  all  she  was  resign- 
ing, but  youthful  feelings  are  transilient,  and  she  soon  gave 
herself  up  to  the  joy  of  the  present  moment,  while  hope  spanned 
with  its  arc-en-ciel  the  clouds  of  the  future.  Arrived  at  her 
new  home,  the  charm  of  novelty  threw  an  illusion  over  every 
object.  The  fort  which  her  husband  commanded,  had  a 
sublime  aspect  in  her  eyes,  with  the  star-bangled  banner  float- 
ing from  its  walls.  The  martial  music,  how  inspiring  it  was  ! 
The  soldiers,  with  their  measured  tread  and  respectful  bearing, 
she  loved  to  gaze  upon,  especially  when  they  gave  the  graceful 
military  salute  to  her  gallant  husband.  She  loved  the  morn- 
ing reveille  and  the  evening  serenade,  and  in  her  enthusiasm, 
thought  she  never  could  grow  weary  of  a  military  life. 

She  saw  nothing  of  the  wild  Indians  who  infested  the 
borders,  and,  grown  fearless  by  unmolested  tranquillity,  en- 
treated her  husband  to  let  her  roam  in  the  woods  for  the  wild 
flowers,  which  had  given  name  to  the  luxurious  region  in 
which  she  now  dwelt.  This,  however,  he  constantly  refused, 
never  allowing  her  to  go  beyond  the  limits  of  the  fort,  unpro- 
tected by  his  presence. 

It  was  strange  to  see  this  young  and  lovely  female  in  a  rude 
fort,  surrounded  by  officers  and  soldiers,  and  all  the  rough 
paraphernalia  of  war.  She  moved  amid  the  groups  like  an 


184  A  TALE  OP   THE    LAND  OF   FLOWERS. 

angel,  sent  to  minister  to  their  ruder  natures,  and  had  danger 
threatened  her,  not  a  man  but  would  have  died  in  her  defence. 
Alas  !  alas  !  that  danger  was  so  near  ! 

One  morning,  preparations  were  making  to  send  a  quantity 
of  ammunition  to  another  fort.  Lieutenant  Willard,  a  very 
young  and  interesting  officer,  commanded  the  expedition.  About 
thirty  soldiers  were  to  escort  him. 

The  morning  was  clear  and  resplendent,  the  air  bland  and 
elastic,  receiving  tone  from  the  sea-born  breezes  that  were 
wafted  from  the  coast.  Lelia  stood  on  the  ramparts,  her  cheeks 
glowing  with  unusual  excitement. 

"  Let  me  go/'  cried  she  to  her  husband,  whose  arm  was  linked 
with  hers.  "  Let  us  go  on  horseback  and  accompany  them. 
It  is  such  a  charming  morning." 

"  I  cannot  go,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  obliged  to  remain  at 
the  fort.  I  wish  I  could,  for  your  sake,  my  Lelia.  You  must 
weary  of  your  confined  and  lonely  life." 

"  Oh,  no !"  she  eagerly  replied.  "  I  never  should  be 
weary  where  you  are.  It  was  a  childish  wish.  It  is  past 
already." 

The  young  lieutenant  approached,  with  his  plumed  hat  in 
his  hand,  and  addressed  his  commander — 

"  Let  me  escort  your  wife,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  be  proud  of 
the  honour,  and  will  insure  her  safe  return." 

"  Shall  it  be  so,  Lelia  ?"  said  Clifford,  looking  into  her  now 
animated  blue  eyes,  and  reading  her  answer  there.  "  Go,  then, 
and  make  ready  with  all  possible  haste,  for  the  morning  hours 
are  wasting." 

Lelia  flew  away  with  the  joyous  step  of  youth,  while  Clifford 
commanded  his  riding  horse  to  be  caparisoned  and  brought 
near.  Lelia  soon  returned  in  a  riding  costume,  whose  dark 
blue  colour  set  off  to  peculiar  advantage  her  blonde  complexion 
and  fair  hair.  A  small  black  hat,  with  black,  drooping  feathers, 
was  placed  carelessly  on  her  head,  and  heightened  by  contrast 
her  transcendent  fairness  and  roseate  bloom.  Never  had  the 
dark  eye  of  Clifford  rested  on  her  so  lovingly,  so  admiringly, 
as  it  did  after  placing  her  on  the  back  of  the  spirited  animal, 
adjusting  the  stirrups  and  placing  the  bridle  in  her  slender 
hand,  which  he  pressed,  ere  he  relinquished  it,  with  all  a 
lover's  ardour. 

"  Lieutenant,"  srid  he,  before  giving  the  ^gral  for  their 
departure,  "  remember  you  have  a  precious  charge  nnmitted 
to  your  cars—  guard  it  with  all  a  soldier's  vigilance/' 


A  TALE  OF  THE  LAND  OF  FLOWERS.       185 

"I  will  guard  it  with  my  life,"  said  the  young  soldier,  with 
a  bright  blush  and  a  beaming  smile,  little  dreaming  that  he 
was  uttering  the  words  of  prophecy. 

Captain  Clifford  stood  watching  the  party  as  long  as  it  was 
in  sight.  Lelia  was  mounted  on  a  milk-white  horse,  Lieuten- 
ant Willard  on  a  coal-black  one.  Again  and  again  Lelia  looked 
back,  kissing  her  hand  to  her  husband  and  gayly  smiling. 
When  he  could  no  longer  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  black  plumes 
waving  in  the  breeze  of  morn,  he  turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

"Should  any  evil  befall  her,"  thought  he,  "I  never 
should  forgive  myself  for  suffering  her  to  depart.  But  impos- 
sible— the  Indians  are  driven  from  this  vicinity,  and  she  is 
nobly  guarded." 

In  the  mean  time,  Lelia  went  on  her  way  rejoicing,  thought- 
less of  danger,  and  exhilarated  by  exercise.  The  young  lieu- 
tenant charmed  her  by  dwelling  on  her  husband's  praises,  which 
were  music  to  her  ear.  Then  he  talked  to  her  of  his  mother 
and  sisters,  till  her  eyes  overflowed  at  the  remembrance  of  her 
own. 

All  at  once,  young  Willard  drew  his  horse  nearer  to  hers, 
and  bent  his  ear  in  a  listening  attitude.  They  were  passing  a 
dense  thicket;  and  he  heard  a  kind  of  hissing  sound,  which 
was  immediately  followed  by  a  fierce,  savage  whoop. 

Lelia,  struck  with  deadly  fainting,  threw  her  arms  round 
the  horse's  neck,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  flowing  mane. 
Young  Willard  sprang  to  the  ground  with  the  speed  of  light- 
ning, and,  taking  Lelia  from  the  saddle,  tried  to  place  her  in 
the  ammunition  wagon,  where  she  could  be  sheltered  from  the 
ambushed  fire  of  the  Indians,  who  were  now  rattling  their  shot 
from  the  thicket.  She  had  fainted  from  terror,  and  lay  a  help- 
less weight  in  his  arms.  Before  he  could  reach  the  wagon, 
she  received  a  death-wound  in  her  bosom,  and  he  fell  wounded 
and  gasping  by  her  side. 

The  soldiers,  in  the  mean  time,  discharged  a  volley  on  the 
sheltered  savages,  which  probably  sent  them  to  a  deeper  covert; 
for  they  ceased  their  firing,  leaving  behind  two  youthful  vie 
tirns  to  their  indiscriminate  vengeance.  Thank  Heaven  that, 
intimidated  by  the  fierce  defence  of  the  soldiers,  they  had  fled 
without  daring  to  approach  with  the  terrible  scalping-knife ! 
The  remains  of  the  lovely  Lelia  were  spared  this  awful  desecra- 
tion. She  was  insensible  when  she  received  the  death-wound, 
and  passed  unconsciously  the  shadowy  confines  of  the  spirit 
world.  She  suffered  all  the  agonies  of  death  when  the  horrible 
129 


186  A  TALfc  OP  T^E  LANt  OF  FLOWERS. 

yell  first  burst  upon  her  ear.  In  that  moment,  father,  mother 
sister,  native  home,  dearly-loved,  remembered  scenes,  all  rose, 
before  her  with  lifelike  vividness;  then  her  husband,  standing 
on  the  ramparts,  waving  his  hand  in  token  of  adieu,  with  a 
beaming  smile;  then  the  dreadful  conviction  that  it  was  the 
last  glimpse  of  life  and  love  that  would  ever  be  hers ;  then — 
all  was  darkness. 

The  horses  which  had  borne  Lelia  and  Willard,  dispossessed 
of  their  riders,  rushed  back  to  the  fort.  Clifford  read  a  tale 
of  horror  in  their  empty  saddles  and  loose,  flowing  bridles. 
Mounting  one,  he  rode  with  the  speed  of  an  eagle  to  the  fatal 
spot.  The  unfortunate  Willard  still  lived,  though  life  was  fust 
ebbing  away.  He  was  supported  in  the  arms  of  the  soldiers, 
who  gazed  alternately  on  his  pale  and  altering  features,  and 
the  beauteous  body  reclining  near.  What  a  spectacle  for  a 
young  and  adoring  husband  !  There  she  lay — his  fair  young 
bride — whom  he  had  lured  from  her  happy  home  only  to  be 
the  victim  of  the  red  man's  wrath.  No  mark  of  violence  was 
visible;  no  blood  oozed  from  the  wound,  which  closed  as  soon 
as  it  was  made.  Her  hat  had  fallen  from  her  head,  and  lay, 
with  broken  feathers,  on  the  ground.  Her  long,  fair  hair, 
loosened  and  flowing,  streamed  around  her  in  bands  of  paly 
gold,  and  glistened  with  mournful  lustre  on  her  dark  riding- 
dress.  The  glow  of  life  still  lingered  on  her  cheek ;  but  her 
eyes, — those  large,  loving,  pensive  blue  eyes, — now  half-closed, 
were  fixed  and  glassy. 

"  Captain,"  murmured  the  expiring  lieutenant,  "  I  would 
die  happy,  could  I  have  saved  your  wife.  Oh,  my  captain, 
it  is  you  who  die  !" 

Clifford,  who  stood  as  if  transfixed,  gazing  on  his  slaughtered 
wife  and  dying  friend,  here  uttered  a  loud  and  bitter  cry,  and 
threw  himself  by  the  side  of  her  whom  he  would  have  died  to 
ransom  from  death.  He  folded  his  arms  around  her,  and 
covered  her  cold  lips  and  cheeks  with  kisses  such  as  "joy  ne'er 
knew."  He  called  upon  her,  by  every  fond  and  endearing 
name,  to  look  at  him,  to  speak,  and  tell  him  that  she  lived. 
In  the  midst  of  his  frantic  adjurations,  the  soul  of  the  brave 
young  Willard  passed  into  the  presence  of  its  God.  Oh  !  for 
a  mother's  bosom,  on  which  he  could  have  pillowed  his  faint- 
ing head !  Oh !  for  a  sister's  arms,  to  support  his  sinking 
frame  !  But  the  soldier's  death-pillow  is  the  cold  ground,  and 
his  last  sigh  is  breathed  up  to  the  heavens  bending  above  him. 
It  is  well. 


A  TALE   OP   THE  LAND   OF    FLOWERS.  187 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  anguish  of  the  unhappy 
Clifford.  For  a  time,  it  threatened  to  unthrone  his  reason, 
heightened  as  it  was  by  the  bitterest  remorse.  A  dreadful 
task  awaited  him  : — to  write  to  her  parents  and  inform  them 
of  the  mournful  tragedy.  This  being  done,  he  felt  as  the 
criminal  does  while  the  doom  he  dreads  is  impending  over 
him.  He  expected  to  be  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  mur- 
derer; for,  had  it  not  been  for  him,  Lelia  might  still  be  warm 
with  life,  and  youth,  and  joy.  With  trembling  hands  he  broke 
the  letter  which  came  in  reply  to  his,  communicating  the  fatal 
tidings.  It  contained  no  word  of  reproach,  no  language  of 
bitterness.  It  entreated  him  to  come  back,  bearing  with  him 
all  that  was  left  of  the  ill-fated  Lelia ;  to  come  and  take  a 
eon's  place  in  their  darkened  home  and  sorrowing  hearts. 

Captain  Clifford  obtained  a  furlough,  and  fulfilled  the  wishes 
of  the  mourning  parents.  It  was  a  sad  meeting  j  but  recon- 
ciliation, born  of  sorrow,  made  it  hallowed. 

Embalmed  by  the  tears  of  her  young  companions,  the  re- 
mains of  the  murdered  Lelia  were  deposited  in  her  native 
soil.  Remembrance  of  her  fault  was  lost  in  pity  for  her  un- 
timely doom.  They  could  not  speak  harshly  of  one  who  had 
expiated  her  disobedience  by  her  life. 

"Had  I  only  forgiven  her!"  was  the  burden  of  the  father's 
heart.  "  Oh  !  had  I  only  forgiven  !" 

Yes !  fallible  and  erring  beings  that  we  are,  let  us  forgive, 
as  we  pray  to  be  forgiven  by  our  Father  in  heaven.  Let  not 
pardon  be  delayed  till  the  heart  it  would  have  gladdened  is 
cold  beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley.  The  relenting  voice  can- 
not penetrate  the  deep,  dark  abyss  of  the  grave.  No  one  ever 
mourned  for  having  followed  the  example  of  Him  who  forgave 
even  his  murderers  with  his  expiring  breath ;  but  how  many 
have  sorrowed,  when  too  late,  over  the  inexorable  will  and  the 
severe,  though  just  decree  ! 

Let  the  young  maiden  who  perchance  may  read  this  sad  but 
true  history  tremble  at  the  consequences  of  filial  disobedience. 
God,  sooner  or  later,  avenges  the  violation  of  his  sacred  laws. 
She  may  not,  like  Lelia,  perish  by  the  death-shot  of  the  Indian, 
but  she  may  be  reserved  for  a  fate  more  mournful  still, — the 
slow  wasting  away  of  the  heart,  under  the  blighting  influence 
of  unkindness  or  perfidy.  As  she  has  forsaken  her  parents, 
she  may  be  herself  forsaken  and  betrayed.  Lelia  was  sweet, 
lovely,  gentle,  and  guileless ;  but  she  yielded  to  the  dictates  of 


188  A  TALE   OF   THE   LAND   OF   FLOWERS. 

passnn,  and  exposed  herself  to  the  terrible  doom  we  have 
rer  .rded. 

Yes,  she  was  indeed  lovely.  Never  shall  we  forget  the  soft, 
beseeching,  pensive  expression  of  her  prophetic  eyes,  the  tones 
of  her  sweet,  plaintive  voice.  We  are  reminded  of  the  words 
of  Ossian  :  "  Sweet  is  the  memory  of  departed  friends.  Like 
the  mellow  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  it  falls  tenderly,  yet  sadly, 
on  the  soul." 


MAGNOLIA    LEAVES. 


(189) 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  MAGNOLIA  is  the  pride  of  the  South.  Its  magnificent 
white  blossoms  shine  like  stars  in  the  midst  of  the  deep  green 
woods, — their  fragrance  embalms  the  whole  atmosphere  where 
they  bloom,  and  the  deep  perennial  verdure  of  the  leaves  gives 
beauty  and  richness  to  the  wintry  landscape.  But  it  was  not 
these  splendid  attributes  that  suggested  the  name  given  to  the 
following  pages.  Its  waxen  petals  serve  as  tablets,  on  which 
friend  may  transmit  to  friend  some  glowing  thought,  which 
might  otherwise  fade  away,  without  leaving  any  record  of  its 
existence.  In  wandering  through  the  woods  in  the  season  of 
flowers,  these  tablets  can  always  be  obtained,  and  a  splinter 
torn  from  the  bark  will  serve  as  a  stylus,  with  which  the  senti- 
ments of  love  and  friendship  may  be  easily  traced. 

The  name  seemed  appropriate  for  these  leaflets  of  the  heart, 
which  we  here  present  in  a  garland  to  the  reader.  Though 
the  growth  of  a  southern  soil,  may  they  bloom  also  in  a  north- 
ern cliine. 

Would  that  we  had  the  power  to  encircle  with  flowery  bonds 
the  North  and  the  South,  and  draw  them  together  in  sweeter, 
closer  union  ! 

C.  L.  H. 

COLUMBUS,  May  1st,  1853. 

(191) 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 


QUINCY,  FLA.,  May  15,  1852.    • 

IN  looking  abroad  at  this  moment,  the  eye  meets  the  two 
most  beautiful  colours  in  nature,  green  and  blue — the  green 
of  the  earth,  and  the  blue  of  the  sky.  The  horizon  presents  a 
uniform,  scarcely  undulating  line,  broken  by  the  lofty  top 
boughs  of  the  forest  trees,  or  the  sharp  roof  of  an  occasional 
dwelling-house.  But  nearer  than  the  horizon's  edge,  there  is 
a  grove  of  young  oaks,  so  thick,  so  green,  so  cool  and  refresh- 
ing, we  have  no  doubt  the  Dryads  hold  many  a  moonlight 
revel  in  its  virgin  shades.  The  Fairies,  too,  flit  about  on  the 
dewy  sward,  at  their  nightly  rendezvous,  after  wandering 

"  Over  hill,  over  dale, 
Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier — 

Over  park,  over  pale, 
Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire." 

The  other  evening,  and  a  true  fairy  evening  it  was,  all 
moonlight  and  dew,  as  we  sat  listening  to  the  sweet  duet,  com- 
mencing with 

"I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grow," 

and  as  we  looked  out  into  the  deep  shades  of  this  grove,  all 
sprinkled  with  silver  as  it  was,  the  spell  of  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  was  upon  us,  and  we  could  see  Titania  sleeping 
there,  in  all  her  elfin  beauty,  while  cruel  and  mischievous 
Oberon  squeezed  on  the  fringed  curtains  of  her  eyes,  the  juice 
of  the  milk-white  flower,  made  purple  by  love's  wound,  yclept 
by  young  maidens,  Love  in  idleness. 

(193) 


194  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

How  beautiful  is  the  poetry  which  peoples  nature  with  the 
glorious  creations  of  imagination  !  What  a  charm  has  it  given 
to  the  lonely  wood,  the  silent  rock,  and  the  voiceless  stream ! 
The  poetry  of  mythology,  too,  how  exquisite  is  it!  What 
beauty  and  interest  it  imparts  to  inanimate  objects  !  The  im- 
prisoned Dryad  moans  amid  the  leafy  boughs.  The  Naiad 
murmurs  in  the  gurgling  fountain.  In  the  plaintive  notes  of 
Echo,  we  hear  the  accents  of  the  love-lorn  nymph,  the  victim 
of  the  self-adoring  Narcissus ;  and  in  the  beautiful  wind-flower, 
born  of  the  blood  of  Adonis,  we  read  the  history  of  the  ena- 
moured Venus,  and  the  beautiful,  but  scornful,  hunter  youth. 

Take  away  all  poetical,  mythological,  and  historical  associa- 
tions from  nature,  and  it  becomes  a  body  without  a  soul — "  all 
coldly  sweet,  all  deadly  fair."  Even  the  child,  untaught  in 
mystic  lore,  finds  a  charm  in  inanimate  nature,  independent  of 
its  own  loveliness.  The  soft  wind-breath  that  lingers  on  its 
cheek  reminds  it  of  a  mother's  kiss ;  the  gentle  murmur  of 
the  violet,  of  the  music  of  her  voice ;  the  summer  rain-drops, 
of  her  tears ;  the  autumn  gusts,  of  her  solemn  chidings. 

Take  away  all  Scriptural  associations  from  Nature — what  a 
blank  is  left !  Yea,  what  grandeur — yea,  what  glory  are  an- 
nihilated ! 

The  hills,  what  are  they?  Piles  of  granite  and  rough 
masses  of  rock  and  soil — inequalities  on  the  surface  of  the 
broad  earth.  Let  mythology  invest  them  with  its  poetic  charm  : 
They  become  the  dwelling-places  of  the  heathen  divinities,  the 
thrones  of  Olympian  gods  and  goddesses,  the  fabled  hierarchy 
of  Greece  and  Rome.  Let  Christianity  come  forward,  and  we 
feel  an  influence  more  holy  than  poetry,  more  mighty  than 
superstition.  God  himself  is  enthroned  on  the  mountains,  in 
"  light  inaccessible  and  full  of  glory."  We  see  Him  in  the 
thunders  and  lightnings  and  thick  smoke  of  Sinai ;  in  the  flow- 
ing blood  and  darkened  summit  of  Mount  Calvary.  WTherever 
the  sacred  mountains  rise,  whether  baptized  by  water,  fire,  or 
blood,  they  are  the  thrones  of  invisible  or  incarnate  Deity,  and 
we  think  of  them  as  magnificent  temples,  typical  of  those 
temples  not  made  with  hands,  "  eternal  in  the  heavens."  So 
it  is  with  the  waters.  The  rivers,  what  are  they  ?  The  rains 
descend — they  fall  on  the  hill-tops — they  penetrate  the  fissures 
of  the  earth,  wind  through  its  subterranean  cavities,  gush  out 
through  rocky  portals,  and,  meeting  congenial  springs,  swell 
into  volume,  and  roll  on  through  guarding  shores — roll  on  to 
sea  or  ocean,  a  tributary  formed  of  thousand  tributaries. 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  195 

Mythology  gives  life  to  this  cold  element.  The  virgin,  Are- 
thusa,  animates  the  gliding  fountain — the  divine  Alpheus 
moves  to  love  the  hearts  of  the  river  nymphs,  who  gaze  upon 
his  beauty.  The  sea-green  mantle  of  Neptune  floats  over  the 
bosom  of  ocean — his  fiery  steeds  flake  with  foam  its  azure 
surface.  How  beautiful,  how  sublime  are  these  associations  ! 
Yet  how  infinitely  short  in  beauty  and  sublimity  are  they,  of 
chose  awakened  by  the  bards  of  the  Bible  !  The  prophets 
stand  on  the  margin  of  Jordan.  On  the  opposite  bank  smiles 
the  promised  land.  One  sweep  of  Elijah's  mantle,  and  the 
waters  flow  back,  as  at  the  mandate  of  a  God.  The  Israelites 
tremble  on  the  shores  of  the  Eed  Sea.  They  fly  from  Pharaoh's 
royal  hosts.  At  the  bidding  of  a  God,  the  waves  rise  up  in 
crystal  walls,  making  a  path  for  the  chosen  children  of  the 
Most  High.  We  are  told  that  the  Almighty  holds  the  seas 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  that  the  mountains  flow  down  at 
His  presence,  that  the  deep  lifts  up  its  hands  on  high,  that  the 
perpetual  hills  do  bow. 

Surely  this  is  a  suggestive  grove.  We  had  promised  you  a 
sketch  from  this  place ;  but  after  saying  it  is  beautiful,  rural, 
sweet  and  tranquil,  we  feel  as  if  we  had  said  all  that  it  becomes 
us  to  utter,  at  this  early  period  of  our  sojourn  in  it.  We  have 
tried  to  collect  some  legendary  lore  to  transmit  to  you,  but  in 
vain.  We  are  told  of  some  hoary  seer,  who  could  give  us 
most  thrilling  accounts  of  Indian  life  and  warfare,  but  alas  ! 
he  is  far  from  us,  and  we  can  derive  no  benefit  from  his  storied 
memory. 

There  are  the  ruins  of  an  old  Spanish  fort,  about  ten  miles 
from  here,  that  must  be  interesting,  from  their  antiquity — so 
moss-grown  are  they,  so  old.  A  gentleman,  who  was  describ- 
ing them,  and  who  visited  the  spot  about  nine  years  since, 
says,  that  then  it  had  been  so  long  deserted  that  large  trees 
were  growing  up  in  the  midst  of  the  four  roads  which  diverged 
from  the  old  fort.  There  is  said  to  be  a  still  more  interesting 
ruin  near  Tallahassee.  If  we  should  chance  to  visit  it,  we  will 
endeavour  to  enrich  ourselves  with  the  traditionary  gems  which 
adorn  the  place.  There  is  a  gentleman  residing  there,  who  is 
said  to  be  a  living  Indian  Encyclopedia,  if  we  may  call  him 
so.  A  son  of  the  forest,  whose  raven  locks  were  bleached  by 
the  sun  and  wind  of  one  hundred  and  forty  years,  told  him 
all  he  knew  of  his  fast  vanishing  race.  Would  it  not  be  worth 
a  pilgrimage  to  beg  some  of  these  treasures,  which  may  bo 


196  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

buried  with  the  possessor,  give  them  the  golden  setting  of 
imagination,  and  then  exhibit  them  to  the  world  ? 

Why  is  it  that  we  admire  light  and  shade,  so  much  more 
than  light  without  a  shadow  ?  Look  at  the  shadow  of  the 
lattice-work  thrown  wide  across  the  street.  You  can  see  the 
foliage  of  the  trees  playing  among  the  checkers.  Xow  and 
then,  the  figure  of  a  pedestrian  glides  over  the  alternate  bars 
of  silver  and  ebony.  Beyond,  where  all  is  brightness,  it  is  not 
half  so  lovely.  Is  it  not  so  with  life  ?  The  lights  and  shades 
of  feeling  checker  the  surface  of  the  soul.  Fancy  flutters  over 
it  like  the  play  of  the  wind-stirred  foliage,  and  memory,  like 
the  gliding  figure  of  the  pedestrian,  throws  a  long  dark  shadow, 
which  we  fain  would  keep  from  fading  away. 

Did  you  ever  read  the  German  story  of  the  Man  without  a 
Shadow  ?  Tempted  by  an  inexhaustible  purse  of  gold,  he  sold 
his  shadow  to  the  Evil  Spirit.  What  cared  he  for  his  shadow 
— that  useless,  haunting  ghost  of  matter  ?  But  the  boys,  when 
they  saw  him  intercept  the  sunshine,  yet  leave  no  more  shadow 
than  a  crystal,  fled  from  him  in  terror.  He  walked  in  the 
moonlight,  with  the  lady  of  his  heart,  and  whispered  soft 
words  of  love ;  but  when  she  saw  on  the  wall,  a  lonely  shadow, 
while  she  felt  the  warm  clasp  of  his  hand,  she  turned  from 
him  in  speechless  horror.  Even  the  mendicant,  whose  wants 
his  gold  relieved,  shuddered  at  his  unshadowed  presence,  and 
refused  his  unblest  gifts.  He  would  have  given  a  kingdom — 
ten  thousand  kingdoms,  were  they  his — to  win  back  the  haunt- 
ing shadow  he  had  so  thoughtlessly  bartered.  So  it  is  with 
man :  when  he  would  utterly  free  himself  from  sorrow — the 
shadow  of  life — he  is  divorced  from  the  sympathies  of  his 
kind,  the  fellowship  of  humanity.  He  walks  alone,  in  the  soli- 
tary glare  of  his  destiny.  Oh  !  who  would  not  prefer  walking 
in  shadow,  side  by  side  with  friendship  and  love,  to  the  lonely 
brilliancy  of  the  German  student's  lot ! 

We  would  escape  from  Death,  the  great  shadow  rolling 
behind  the  steps  of  humanity ;  yet  what  corse  so  fearful  as 
that  denounced  upon  the  Wandering  Jew — immortal  roauier 
on  Time's  deserted  shore — doomed  to  gaze  upon  the  successive 
wrecks  of  joy  and  love — praying  for  the  shadow  that  never 
falls  on  the  burning  sands  of  his  existence ! 

No !  children  of  sunshine  and  shade,  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of 
life  and  death — heirs  of  a  two-fold  being — let  us  avoid  all 
unholy  league  with  the  Spirit  of  Darkness.  Let  us  never  dare 
to  barter  our  divine  birth-right,  lest,  like  Esau,  we  find  we  have 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  197 

only  a  miserable  mess  of  pottage  in  exchange,  while  we  expose 
ourselves  to  the  retributions  of  Eternity. 

How  strange  it  is,  that  the  reflection  of  a  slight  curtain  of 
woven  wood-work,  on  the  moon-lighted  road,  should  call  up 
ideas  like  these  !  Yet  every  object  in  nature  may  be  made  a 
round  in  the  ladder,  on  which  the  angels  of  thought  mount  up 
to  heaven. 

Morning. — How  different  an  aspect  everything  wears  by 
sunlight!  No  more  fairies;  no  more  deep,  poetic  musings. 
Reality  reigns,  and  the  gilding  tints  of  imagination  fade  like 
the  phantasmagoria  of  a  dream. 

If  you  turn  to  the  left,  another  grove  greets  the  eye,  luxuriant 
and  beautiful,  though  less  romantic  than  the  one  we  have 
described.  Man  has  appropriated  it  to  the  business  of  life.  A 
handsome  Court  House,  built  of  a  kind  of  limestone,  stands  in 
the  centre,  and  the  green  lawn  is  surrounded  by  a  railing,  once 
white,  probably,  but  now  looking  rather  dim  and  discoloured. 
The  morning  is  excessively  sultry.  You  would  know  it  by 
looking  at  the  horses  tied  along  by  the  railing,  under  the  cool 
spreading  shade,  lazily  sweeping  away  the  flies  from  their  shin- 
ing sides  with  the  brushes  that  nature  has  provided  them 
with,  and  lifting  up  first  one  foot,  then  the  other,  to  assist  in 
the  operation,  sometimes  they  suddenly  wrinkle  their  smooth 
skins,  turning  their  heads  simultaneously,  to  see  the  effect  of 
their  muscular  construction. 

That  building  a  little  beyond,  gleaming  white  through  the 
trees,  is  the  Methodist  Church,  and  a  little  further,  the  Pres- 
byterian Church  stands,  in  front  of  a  green  common,  where 
the  cattle  love  to  browse  in  the  shade.  There  are  Episcopalian 
and  Baptist  Churches  also — though,  at  present,  the  flocks  seem 
scattered  for  want  of  shepherds. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  there  is  any  architectual  magnificence 
here — though  there  are  many  handsome  dwelling-houses, 
adorned  with  shrubbery,  having  beautiful  flower  gardens,  in- 
dicative of  the  taste  and  refinement  of  the  inmates. 

There  is  a  large  Academy,  where  the  youth  of  both  sexes 
are  taught  in  distinct  departments.  They  celebrated  the  com- 
ing of  May  by  a  large  party,  which,  though  unaccompanied 
by  coronation  rites,  was  undoubtedly  not  wanting  in  youthful 
hilarity.  The  association  of  childhood  and  youth  with  the  sea- 
son of  bloom  and  flowers  is  charming,  and  many  a  garland  is 
twined  at  these  sweet  eras,  which  bloom  when  the  blossoms 
of  May  are  faded  and  gone.  We  remember  some  fair  young 


198  MAGNOLIA   LEAVES. 

faces  blushing  among  the  flowers,  emblematical  of  the  fleeting 
glow  of  youth,  and  we  sigh  to  think  that  the  dust  of  the  grave 
has  dimmed  the  brightness  that  seemed  destined  for  perennial 
bloom. 

Oh !  if  such  hues  of  beauty  shone 

For  ever  fadeless  in  our  path — 
If  never  o'er  the  heaven's  bright  blue 

There  floated  darkening  clouds  of  wrath — 
Our  spirits  would  too  fondly  cling 

To  this  too  fair,  deluding  earth ; 
The  soul  that  flutters  for  the  skies, 

Would  sink  regardless  of  its  birth. 

And  now,  methinks  you  will  say,  "  this  is  a  paper  filled  with 
heterogeneous  matter."  And  so  it  is — we  have  called  it  a 
Magnolia  leaf- — on  which  we  have  traced  the  passing  impres- 
sions of  the  moment.  At  first,  it  might  seem  like  vanity,  to 
borrow  a  name  so  exquisite  and  fair ;  but  who,  that  has  seen 
these  lovely  blossoms,  or  who,  after  their  surface  has  received 
even  the  most  delicate  touch,  has  marked  the  dingy  brown 
stains  which  deepen  on  the  petals,  disfiguring  their  fairness, 
and  rendering  dim  and  illegible  the  characters  traced  upon 
them,  but  must  read  a  lesson  of  lowliness  and  humility  ?  Soon, 
also,  will  the  shade  gather  over  these  lines ;  but  if,  while  fad- 
ing, they  give  forth  the  faintest  breath  of  the  fragrance  that 
gushes  from  every  pore  of  the  Magnolia  petals,  they  ask  no 
longer  lease  of  life  or  fame. 


NO.  n. 

QUINCY,  FLA.,  May  20,  1852. 

OLD  letters  !  leaflets  of  memory  !  Yes,  they  are  indeed  so. 
Did  you  ever  sit  down,  on  the  eve  of  a  journey,  or  a  change  of 
residence,  and,  untying  packet  after  packet,  prepare  to  consign 
them  to  the  flames  ?  and,  as  you  unfolded  the  papers  one  by 
one,  have  not  words  arrested  your  eye,  so  full  of  vitality,  that 
it  seemed  they  would  writhe  in  agony  when  exposed  to  the 
wrath  of  the  burning  element  ? 

A  short  time  since  we  prepared  for  a  similar  holocaust,  with 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  199 

a  sad  and  self-upbraiding  heart.  We  deemed  the  act  a  duty, 
and  yet  it  seemed  little  less  than  sacrilege.  Seating  ourselves 
by  the  side  of  an  open  trunk,  overflowing  with  the  accumula- 
ting stream  of  written  thought,  we  began  to  separate  the  chaff 
from  the  wheat,  the  wine  from  the  lees,  the  gold  from  the 
dross.  This  appeared  at  first  an  easy  task,  but  we  were  soon 
convinced  of  our  error:  as  Dominie  Samson  stood  on  the 
steps  of  the  library,  holding  in  his  hands  the  huge  folios  he 
was  to  dust  and  arrange ;  forgetful  of  time  or  place,  we  bent 
over  the  trunk,  absorbed,  abstracted,  while 

"  The  soul  of  other  days  came  rushing  in." 

Shall  I  write  down  some  of  the  reminiscences  awakened  by 
this  review  ?  Shall  memory  be  the  Magnolia  tree,  green  and 
beautiful,  and  its  tablets  the  blossom  leaves,  on  which  the  hand 
)f  affection  has  traced  deep  and  abiding  characters  ? 

Here  is  a  packet,  superscribed  in  a  fine,  easy,  yet  decided 
hand,  more  than  usually  slanting,  somewhat  careless,  as  the 
uridotted  i's  and  uncrossed  t's  indicate.  The  downsweeping 
lines  are  all  single;  no  folding  back  of  the  y's  and  g's;  all 
straight  like  p's  and  q's.  Time  is  too  precious  to  allow  of  such 
superfluities.  One  flash  of  the  mind — one  dash  of  the  pen — 
apd  it  is  done. 

At  sight  of  this  handwriting,  a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  figure 
appears,  with  joyous  smile,  and  frank,  sunshiny  countenance. 
No  one  would  dream  that  under  this  girlish,  almost  childish 
exterior,  there  resided  a  powerful  intellect,  a  strong  will,  and 
indomitable  energy  of  character.  A  thorough  disregard  of  the 
airy  graces  of  her  sex — a  lofty  scorn  of  its  foibles  and  faults — 
individualize  and  set  her  apart  from  the  circle  in  which  she 
dwells.  She  has  a  noble,  self-sacrificing,  generous  spirit — a 
mind  thirsting  for  knowledge — a  soul  glowing  with  enthusiasm, 
which  no  disappointments  can  chill,  no  difficulties  repress. 
Here  is  an  extract  from  one  of  her  letters,  written  in  a  moment 
of  haste  and  excitement : 

"  I  cannot  help  recurring  to  the  feelings  with  which  I  wrote 
to  you,  when  I  last  dated .  It  was  then,  when  de- 
pressed as  low  as  a  human  being  can  be,  except  by  crime,  that 
I  wrote  you  a  transcript  of  my  heart.  Did  I  complain  ?  Did 
I  express  want  of  faith?  If  I  did,  I  should  now  repent,  for 
at  this  moment  I  feel  that  my  original  plans  are  all  more  than 
accomplished.  You  sympathized  with  me  then.  Will  you 


200  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

not  do  so  now  ?  Learn  from  my  experience  that  the  darkest 
day  may  be  the  precursor  of  a  glorious  morn.  I  now  feel  that 
the  night  was  necessary,  in  order  that  its  tears  might  prepare 
the  soul  for  the  genial  influences  of  a  happier  sun.  There  is 
a  view  of  the  subject  of  suffering,  whence  springs  the  sweetest 
flowers  of  enjoyment.  It  is  when  we  consider  it  as  developing 
the  soul's  capacities  of  feeling.  When  we  suffer  deeply,  we 
feel  as  if  our  souls'  boundaries  were  enlarged ;  we  begin  to 
conceive  of  what  is  true;  that  our  spirits  spread  an  infinite 
surface  to  the  influence  of  the  universe,  and  its  Creator. 
Hence  comes  a  more  realizing  sense  of  that  Creator's  bound- 
lessness. We  look  to  His  revealed  will  for  more  truth — more 
comfort — deeper  sentiments — and  we  find  it  there.  It  almost 
seems  a  new  revelation." 

She  sometimes  spreads  the  wings  of  imagination,  and  rises 
into  the  regions  of  poetry  and  romance.  She  thus  apostro- 
phizes a  river,  flowing  through  a  lovely  valley,  consecrated  by 
holy  remembrances : 

"  Thy  river  images 
The  very  piety  I  love.     Those  waves 
Which  clear,  and  deep,  and  rapidly  roll  on, 
Protected  from  the  glare  of  noonday  sun 
And  from  the  public  gaze,  by  banks  adorned 
With  trees  itself  has  nourished  into  life. 
Those  sparkling  waves  not  on  the  eye  obtrude, 
Of  him  who  at  a  distance  views.     Yet  who 
Can  gaze  upon  the  vale,  nor  know  a  stream 
Of  living  water  flows  there  ?     So  fragrant, 
And  so  fresh,  the  landscape  glows — and  see 
The  graceful  drapery  of  silver,  purple, 
Gold,  and  every  other  rainbow  tint, 
That  twilight  and  Aurora  spread  o'er  all, 
Betrays  the  modest  benefactor,  source 
And  presence  too,  of  all  this  valley's 
Beauty." 

And  so  she  goes  on,  taking  in  the  mountains  and  the  vales, 
and  the  mists  that  float  over  them,  and  the  friends,  who 

"  Made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear." 

Here  is  another  packet,  written  in  a  more  delicate,  careful, 
and  measured  manner.  We  can  read  the  beatitudes  here. 
One  of  the  ministering  spirits  sent  to  bind  up  the  wounds  of 
the  bleeding  heart,  and  to  pour  upon  them  the  oil  and  balm  of 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  201 

consolation,  traced  these  pale,  religious-looking  characters. 
Yes  !  they  all  have  a  Bible  look,  for  they  were  all  dictated  by 
the  same  Holy  Spirit  that  inspired  the  sacred  Scriptures,  a  ad 
prepares  the  heart  for  their  benign  and  purifying  influence. 
The  life  of  the  writer  has  been  one  of  self-sacrifice.  Year 
after  year  she  watched  the  waning  health  of  a  beloved  mother, 
scattering  the  blossoms  of  filial  affection  over  the  pillow  of 
disease,  and  making  the  passage  to  the  tomb,  a  beautiful  and 
love-lighted  pathway.  And  soon  the  grave  closed  over  this 
dearest  object  of  her  earthly  cares.  She  has  gi,n3  on  her 
heavenly  mission,  among  the  sick  and  the  csorruwing,  relin- 
quishing social  pleasures  which  no  one  was  ever  more  formed 
to  enjoy,  whenever  they  interfered  with  the  duties  of  friend- 
ship and  humanity.  Will  it  be  considered  a  breach  of  confi- 
dence to  extract  a  few  sentiments  from  these  letters,  with 
which  to  enrich  my  own  ?  The  world  will  never  know  whose 
unobtrusive  worth  has  won  this  spontaneous  tribute,  and 
should  the  passing  breeze  waft  this  fee// over  intervening  spnce 
to  her,  she  will  forgive  the  transgression,  for  the  sake  of  the 
love  that  causes  it. 

"  Yes,  you  would  find  that  I  was  indeed  as  ready  to  enter 
into  your  joys  and  sorrows,  as  in  those  bright  days  when  the 
world  lay  green  and  untrodden  before  us.  You,  without  a 
thought  of  coming  change — I,  experienced  more,  but  still 
leaning  upon  the  little  varying  influences  around  for  weal  or 
woe.  Your  pathway  has  been  more  varied  with  the  flowers 
and  garlands  of  life,  than  mine,  and  though  I  have  lived  many 
more  years,  yet  you  have  had  many  more  thoughts  than  have 
passed  through  my  mind.  Circumstances  have  brought  out 
worlds  of  interest  in  you,  and  you  have  found  that  the  more 
you  were  taxed,  the  greater  your  resources  showed  them- 
selves." 

The  following  remarks,  written  several  years  since,  were  a 
powerful  stimulus  to  the  mind  they  addressed.  Shall  we 
transcribe  them  ? 

"I  wish  you  would  write  a  novel,  with  taste,  elegance,  and 
wit,  that  shall  show  forth  in  the  highest  degree,  the  superiority 
of  moral  worth.  Let  your  hero  or  heroine  bring  every  feeling 
and  thought  into  subjection,  and  let  every  power  and  oppor- 
tunity be  improved  to  the  greatest  extent,  from  the  grand 
Christian  stimulus,  and  yet,  let  it  not  be  called  a  religious 
novel.  How  well,  in  fancy,  we  can  portray  a  sublime  faith, 
130 


202  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

guiding  every  thought,  and  yet  the  interests  and  the  refine- 
ments of  polished  life  spreading  over  the  whole,  as  a  halo,  to 
give  a  softness  to  the  dazzling  light ! 

"  With  such  a  work,  the  spirit  which  wit  and  talent  produce, 
may  do  a  vast  deal  of  good ;  and  if  you  find  that  your  power 
is  ready  and  your  success  encouraging,  you  must  try  what 
moral  miracles  you  can  work  with  your  pen." 

"  Ah  !"  you  exclaim,  "  how  much  easier  to  dictate,  than  to 
effect;  how  much  easier  to  judge,  than  to  create  !" 

Shall  we  commit  such  thoughts  as  these  to  the  flames? 
Shall  we  destroy  the  record  of  faith  and  affection,  which  have 
been  incitements  to  action  and  encouragements  to  success  ? 
No!  They  are  immortal,  and  cannot,  but  by  annihilating, 
die.  Should  the  fire  apparently  consume  them,  should  the 
ashes  be  given  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  they  would  reap- 
pear in  some  form  of  beauty  and  purity ;  perchance  the  Mag- 
nolia's blossoms  or  the  lily's  petals. 

Here  is  a  packet  bearing  the  impress  of  a  bolder  hand.  It 
is  what  is  called  a  back-hand,  very  graceful  and  regular  in  its 
irregularities.  Let  us  rescue  these  from  the  general  doom, 
for  alas  !  the  writer  sleeps  the  grea*t  sleep  in  Cuba's  beauteous 
isle.  With  everything  to  enrich  and  adorn  life — wealth,  ge- 
nius, friendship,  and  reputation — he  died  in  the  meridian  of 
manhood,  a  victim  to  the  destroying  angel  of  the  Northern 
clime,  who,  borne  on  the  eastern  blast,  slays  its  thousands  and 
ten  thousands  with  remorseless  cruelty.  His  was  the  ardent 
temperament  of  Burns,  united  with  the  passionate  depth  and 
strength  of  Byron.  His  memory  was  stored  with  the  most 
exquisite  poetry  of  both,  which  received  an  added  charm  from 
his  gentle-toned,  melodious  voice.  An  impassioned  lover  of 
Nature,  he  loved  best  of  all  its  moonlight  loveliness.  His 
spirit  then  revelled  in  poetic  dreams,  and  breathed  itself  in 
high-wrought  and  excited  language.  In  early  youth,  exposed 
to  the  temptations  of  wealth  and  the  fascinations  of  pleasure, 
the  world  allured  and  example  betrayed,  but  his  aberrations 
were  short — and  though  he  sometimes  strayed  beyond  the 
limits  of  virtue,  he  was  never  seen  in  the  known  haunts  of 
vice.  Once,  he  uttered  a  passionate  wish  that  he  were  what 
Byron  was,  willing  to  barter  all  present  good,  all  future  weal, 
for  the  possession  of  such  genius  and  fame.  This  wild  wish 
elicited  the  following  thoughts,  which,  at  his  request,  were 
clothed  in  a  poetic  garb  : 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  203 

Thou  wouldst  have  been  that  wondrous  man, 

Whose  mighty  mind  no  mind  could  scan — 

Who,  dark,  sublime,  magnificent, 

Seemed  from  another  region  sent, 

To  give  the  soul's  imaginings 

The  form  and  look  of  breathing  things. 

And  thou,  in  manhood's  glorious  bloom, 

Whose  life  such  brilliant  hopes  illume, 

Wouldst  barter  faith  and  joy  and  love, 

All  peace  below,  all  heaven  above, 

To  be  that  splendid,  reckless  thing, 

Who  dared  his  shafts  at  God  to  fling  ! 

The  crown  of  fire  on  yEtna's  brow 

Afar  its  dazzling  light  may  throw, 

Till  starry  Heaven's  resplendent  host 

In  the  superior  blaze  is  lost ; 

But  where's  the  eye  that  would  not  turn 

From  where  its  wasting  splendours  burn, 

To  the  pure  silvery  light  that  shines 

Where  love  its  myrtle  garland  twiiies  ? 

Happy  was  it  for  him,  that  his  aspirations  were  directed  to 
a  holier  object ;  that  a  greater  than  Byron  became  the  model 
after  which  his  soul  fashioned  itself.  It  was  as  a  disciple  of 
Jesus  he  died — and  the  angel  of  Christianity 

"  With  his  silver  wing  o'ershades 
The  ground  now  sacred  by  his  relics  made. 

Let  the  winds  bear  the  flame  far  from  these  hallowed  me- 
mentoes of  one  who  now  belongs  to  memory  alone.  Cold  is 
now  that  warm,  impulsive  heart — quenched  the  light  of  that 
once  flashing  and  expressive  eye.  Cherished  then  be  the 
traces  he  has  left  of  the  genius,  and  talents,  and  sensibilities, 
which  once  brightened  and  gladdened  the  circle  in  which  he 
moved. 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  the  invention  of  letters  !  How  many 
dreary  blanks  they  fill — how  many  warm  affections  they  per- 
petuate— how  many  glowing  thoughts  they  invest  with  im- 
mortality !  Without  them,  absence  would  be  death,  and 
space  a  grave.  With  them,  friends  may  separate  in  body,  yet 
cling  to  each  other  in  soul.  They  are  an  electric  chain,  on 
which  the  lightning  rays  of  thought  dart  from  mind  to  mind, 
clearing  away  the  vapours  which  time  has  formed.  Spoken 
sentiments  mingle  with  air  and  pass  away.  When  written, 
they  remain  a  source  of  repeated  joy  and  consolation.  There 
are  certain  characters,  which,  though  invisible  to  the  eye, 


204  MAGNOLIA   LEAVES. 

when  exposed  to  the  influence  of  heat,  become  dark  and 
legible.  So  when  the  lines  grow  faint  in  remembrance,  we 
have  only  to  draw  them  within  the  burning  focus  of  intense 
thought,  and  they  appear  strong  and  distinct.  No  matter 
how  widely  friends  may  be  sundered,  their  mingling  spirits 
still  may  meet,  triumphant  over  mountain,  ocean,  wilderness, 
or  plain.  Who  have  not  felt  their  hearts  throb  with  quickened 
pulsations,  as  the  sound  of  rushing  wheels  announces  the 
coming  of  the  mail  ?  Who  have  not  felt  the  glow  of  delight 
pervade  their  whole  being,  when  the  eagerly  desired  letters 
were  placed  in  the  hand,  or  the  chill  of  disappointment  when 
the  precious  communications  were  withheld '/ 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  letters  !  Not  only  over  absence  and 
space  they  triumph,  but  death  itself.  In  vain  the  tomb  closes 
its  marble  portals  over  the  form  we  love.  In  vain  an  hermetic 
seal  is  placed  on  the  dumb  and  pallid  lips — 

"  They  live,  they  speak,  they  breathe  what  love  inspires, 
Warm  from  the  soul  and  faithful  to  its  fires." 


No.  III. 

A  PACKET  tied  with  black  ! — pause,  ere  you  unloosen  the 
band  !  The  knocker  is  muffled,  and  death  has  put  its  seal  on 
every  paper.  With  solemn  touch  release  them  from  the  sable 
ligament  that  confines  them.  On  the  first  which  meets  the 

eye  is  written  in  faint,  pencilled  lines,  "  The  last  letter  of ." 

The  last !  The  hand  which  traced  the  characters,  is  for  ever 
paralyzed.  The  spirit  which  guided  it,  has  risen  where  the 
boldest  flight  of  imagination  cannot  follow.  "  Farewell !" 
seems  to  breathe  from  the  sacred  folds — "  farewell !"  to  echo 
from  the  broken  seals.  A  solemnity  is  diffused  from  this  little 
packet,  that  fills  the  whole  apartment — a  shade — a  chillness — 
a  twilight  of  the  heart — deepening  into  the  gloom  of  sorrow. 
We  remember  a  beautiful  picture  in  the  Dusseldorf  Academy, 
at  New  York.  It  is  the  offering  of  the  Eastern  Magi  to  the 
infant  Saviour.  The  divine  child  is  lying  on  the  lap  of  its 
virgin  mother,  while  the  wise  men  are  prostrated  before  it, 
with  their  faces  prone  to  the  earth.  Triune  bands  of  angels, 
hovering  above,  look  down  upon  the  adoring  sages.  A  flood 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  205 

of  glorious  light  flows  over  the  whole  picture,  and  it  all  seems 
to  emanate  from  the  body  of  the  divine  child,  sweetly  slumber- 
ing in  the  dawn  of  its  incarnation.  We  know  not  by  what 
miracle  of  art  the  illusion  was  produced,  but  it  was  there. 
As  the  light  on  that  picture,  so  the  shade  from  these  letters 
falls,  wide  and  diffusive,  solemn  and  heart-sinking. 

In  unfastening  the  black  ribbon,  two  separate  parcels  dis- 
unite, and  fall  into  the  lap,  both  consecrated  by  the  great 
High  Priest  of  nature — Death.  It  is  no  wonder  a  solemn 
mist  dims  the  brightness  of  the  present  hour.  The  memories 
of  two  radiant  minds,  two  warm,  noble  hearts,  are  floating 
around  us.  The  mist  condenses  into  dew — the  dew  falls  in 
tears.  They  were  brothers. 

"  Oh !  breathe  not  their  name — let  it  sleep  iu  the  shade, 

*  #  •*  *  *  *  * 

Sad,  silent  and  pure,  be  the  tear  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  turf  o'er  their  heads. 
But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weep. 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  graves  where  they  sleep ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  their  memory  green  in  our  souls." 

Let  us  pause  one  moment,  to  pay  a  passing  tribute  to  their 
virtues.  What  matters  it  that  others  know  not  on  whose  tomb 
we  hang  the  funeral  garland  of  love  ?  When  we  wander 
through  a  church-yard,  our  sensibilities  are  not  chilled  because 
the  dust  of  strangers  heaves  the  soil  beneath  our  feet.  All 
the  common  sympathies  of  humanity  are  stirred  within  our 
bosom,  and  we  feel  as  if  every  monument  rising  around  us, 
consecrated  the  ashes  of  a  brother  or  a  sister.  Then,  let  a  few 
Magnolia  leaves,  pure  as  when  first  they  unfold  their  white 
blossoms  to  the  light,  mingle  with  the  cypress  wreath  of  me- 
mory. They  are  not  inappropriate.  There  is  something  sad 
in  their  deep  fragrance,  and  the  great  moral  of  life  may  be 
read  in  their  fleeting  bloom. 

They  were  brothers.  In  their  early  youth  their  father  died, 
leaving  them  the  inheritance  of  an  honoured  name,  a  noble, 
irreproachable  example.  A  widowed  mother,  and  young  orphan 
sisters,  were  a  sacred  legacy  to  their  filial  and  fraternal  love, 
which  they  watched  and  guarded  as  tenderly  and  diligently, 
as  the  Hebrews  did  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  Inspired  by 
the  same  patriotic  spirit  which  animated  their  father's  breast, 
they  adopted  his  profession,  and  enrolled  themselves  under  the 
banner  of  their  country.  It  is  said  that  the  army  is  a  school 


206  MAGNOLIA   LEAVES. 

of  vice  and  immorality,  a  dangerous  place  for  inexperienced 
youth ;  but  these  brothers  were  distinguished  for  their  irre- 
proachable morality,  their  habits  of  sobriety  and  temperance, 
and  their  lovely  affection  for  each  other.  They  were  never 
heard  to  take  the  name  of  their  God  in  vain — never  known  to 
taste  of  the  intoxicating  bowl — and  the  narcotic  weed,  whose 
fifmes  are  the  incense  of  the  camp,  never  approached  their  lips. 
The  memory  of  their  father,  was  the  pillar  of  cloud  by  day, 
the  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  reminding  them  of  the  Holy  One 
of  Israel.  Their  minds  were  enriched  by  historic  treasures, 
the  elegancies  of  literature,  and  adorned  with  the  flowers  of 
poetry.  Their  manners  were  graceful,  polished,  and  winning; 
their  bearing  marked  the  soldier  and  the  gentleman.  The 
younger  was  the  less  tall  and  more  robustly  formed,  with  a 
more  decided  and  martial  tread.  He  had  a  rich,  deep-toned 
voice,  which  discoursed  most  excellent  music;  a  fluent,  eloquent 
tongue,  which  could  lend  a  charm  and  a  power  to  every  vary- 
ing theme,  from  the  thunder  of  war  to  the  music  of  love. 
His  countenance  expressed  the  restlessness  and  enthusiasm  of 
his  character — the  sensibility,  the  passion,  of  his  heart.  Of 
him  it  might  well  have  been  said : 

"  He  is  a  noble  gentleman;  withal 
Happy  in  's  endeavours  ;  the  general  voice 
Sounds  him  for  courtesy,  behaviour,  language, 
And  every  fair  demeanor,  an  example. 
Titles  of  honour  add  not  to  his  worth, 
Who  is  himself  an  honour  to  his  title." 

The  elder  was  distinguished  for  the  dignity  and  grace  of 
his  person,  the  symmetry  and  beauty  of  his  features.  In 
silence,  the  repose  and  tranquillity  of  his  countenance,  reminded 
one  of  the  divine  quietude  of  the  chiselled  marble.  But  if 
there  was  beauty  in  this  repose,  how  much  deeper  was  the 
charm,  when,  speaking,  it  kindled  into  animation  !  when,  in 
smiling,  it  was  gilded  with  such  inner  light,  and  joy,  and  peace! 
It  has  been  said  that  his  smile  was  heavenly,  sweet,  and  win 
n ing  as  ever  parted  a  woman's  lips.  His  voice  was  singularly 
melodious,  and  fell  on  the  ear  like  the  strains  from  a  sweet- 
toned  instrument.  None  that  heard  it,  could  ever  forget  its 
accents.  None  that  beheld  it,  can  forget  the  radiance  of  that 
smile.  And  there  are  some  to  wfeom  its  remembrance  will 
come  like  the  dream  of  au  angel,  like  the  morning  twilight  of 
Leaven's  eternal  day. 


-       MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  207 

"We  will  give  a  brief  sketch  of  the  brother-soldiers,  begin- 
ning with  the  younger,  who  first  passed  away,  "  in  manhood's 
noble  prime."  Yet  it  is  difficult  to  separate  them,  for,  till  their 
marriage,  the  history  of  one  was  so  mingled  with  the  other, 
it  formed  a  web,  whose  unravelling  would  destroy  its  beauty 
and  finish.  They  were  alike  in  their  affection  for  the  home  of 
their  childhood,  in  their  devotion  to  its  interests.  When  they 
returned  to  its  luxuriant  shades,  they  were  welcomed  as  angel 
visitants,  and  to  them  it  was  a  domestic  Eden.  They  loved 
to  watch  beneath  the  kingly  elms — twin  monarchs  of  the 
homestead — whose  lofty  boughs  had  spread  their  leafy  honours 
over  a  father's  brow,  and  where  the  gorgeous  oriole,  year  after 
year,  wove  its  pensile  nest.  They  loved  to  wander  by  the 
winding  stream,  whose  clear,  blue  waters  fertilized  many  a 
green  plain  and  cultivated  field,  and  whose  gurgling  voice  wa^ 
sweeter  to  their  ears  than  the  clarion's  blast,  or  the  resounding 
drum.  Thus,  ever  and  anon,  they  turned  aside  from  the 
thoroughfare  of  life,  to  bathe  their  spirits  in  the  dewy  fresh- 
ness of  its  early  remembrances.  Thus  they  kept  their  hearts 
unpolluted  in  the  midst  of  temptation — warm  and  true,  though 
exposed  to  chilling  contact  with  worldliness  and  experience. 
A  friend,  whose  Muse  has  breathed  a  charm  over  the  lovely 
valley  of  their  birth,  alludes  to  them  in  a  poem,  which,  though 
it  has  never  passed  beyond  the  eyes  of  intimate  friends,  ia 
treasured  in  their  remembrance  among  things  dear  and  precious 
She  describes  their  native  home  : 

"A  soldier's  widow  lives  there — one  on  whom 
My  heart  pours  out  a  portion  of  the  love  that  springs 
From  patriotic  sentiment. 
For  long  she  cherished  with  a  wife's  kind  care, 
And  kept  in  all  the  genial  warmth  of  youth, 
A  heart  which  beat  but  for  his  country's  glory — 
And  she  has  watched  with  tender  care,  the  growth 
Of  sons,  inheriting  their  father's  spirit. 

"  Oh !  sure  the  minds  that  grew  in  this  fair  spot 
Have  pictures  painted  on  their  memory, 
Which,  whereso'er  they  be,  when  leisure  hours 
Wake  up  the  spirit  to  sweet  retrospection, 
Will  rise  to  shame  each  mean,  ignoble  thought, 
Each  sordid  purpose,  each  unworthy  aim, 
And  in  the  keenest  hour  of  suffering, 
Will  pour  sweet  consolation.     The  remembered  beams 
Of  moonlight,  such  as  this — remembered  harmonies 
Of  scenes  uncounted,  irresistible 
As  this  we  gaze  oil — lulling  us  to  peace." 


208  MAGNOLIA   LEAVES. 

And  it  was  so.  With  unpolluted  spirits,  they  passed  through 
the  temptations  of  youth  and  entered  the  portals  of  manhood. 
They  married  and  made  themselves  homes,  over  which  the  star- 
spangled  banner  waved,  and  where  the  guardian  ramparts  rose. 
And  now  we  will  follow  the  steps  of  the  younger,  till  they 
disappear  in  those  trackless  regions  the  living  never  travelled. 

He  had  command  of  a  fort,  and  his  martial  spirit  revelled 
in  the  scenes  that  surrounded  him.  He  was  in  the  same  scenes, 
where,  a  beardless  stripling,  he  entered  his  country's  service, 
burning  with  military  ardour.  Now,  in  the  possession  of  the 
purest  domestic  happiness;  in  the  full  realization  of  his  bright- 
est dreams  of  love  and  joy;  in  the  dignity  of  an  advancing 
reputation,  he  trod  those  ramparts  with  stately  steps  and  kin- 
dling eye,  the  commander  of  those  gallant  soldiers,  who  were 
«oen  issuing  from  their  white-walled  bulwarks,  at  the  morning 
reveille,  or  the  evening  parade.  Oh  !  it  was  a  beautiful,  beauti- 
ful spot!  We  never  can  forget  the  moment  when  we  first  be- 
beld  it,  glimmering  in  the  pallid  moonlight,  when  we  passed 
under  the  portcullis,  and  beheld  the  sentry,  with  measured 
tread  and  folded  arms,  walking  "  his  lonely  round."  We  could 
Bee  pyramids  of  cannon  balls  glittering  on  the  ramparts ;  we 
could  see  the  starry  flag  fluttering  in  the  breeze  of  night.  It 
was  the  first  time  we  had  ever  gazed  on  the  glittering  para- 
phernalia of  war,  and  we  felt  hereditary  fire  kindling  in  our 
bosom.  It  seemed  an  earthly  paradise — that  beautiful  fort — 
with  its  gravel  walks,  clean  and  level  as  a  lady's  drawing-room, 
its  warlike  decorations,  the  sublime  cannon-peal  of  the  morn- 
ing, the  inspiring  music  of  the  evening,  the  pomp,  the  cir- 
cumstance, the  glory  of  military  display,  the  graceful  hospita- 
lity of  the  commander  and  his  charming  wife,  the  gayety.  the 
brightness,  the  novelty  of  the  scene — all  combined  to  imprint  it 
on  the  memory  in  indelible  colours.  Among  the  papers  scattered 
before  us,  we  see  some  lines  written  while  the  impression  was 
warm  on  the  imagination.  Shall  we  transcribe  them  here  ?  for 
one  can  paint  a  picture  so  much  better  in  poetry  than  in  prose. 
It.  was  written  after  a  sail  on  the  moonlight  waters.  Such  a 
glorious  night  it  was  !  So  calm,  so  bland,  so  bright,  one  could 
scarcely  tell  where  the  sky  and  water  met,  only  the  silvery 
blue  of  the  latter  had  a  quivering  motion,  and  the  former  was 
still  as  glass.  The  deep,  rich  voice  of  the  commander,  singing 
some  martial  song,  floated  over  the  rippling  wake  of  the  barge, 
and  blended  with  the  sound  of  the  dipping  oars.  It  was  rowed 
by  eight  soldiers,  in  uniform  apparel,  all  fine-looking  dark- 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  209 

browed  men,  whose  motions,  as  they  bowed  over  their  oars, 
were  as  regular  and  graceful,  as  the  wings  of  a  bird  flapping 
the  air.  There  were  no  stars  visible — the  moon  was  shining 
too  resplendently — but  the  revolving  gleam  of  the  light-house 
reflected  in  the  waters, 

/ 

"Looked  lovely  as  Hope, 

That  star  on  Eternity's  ocean." 

There  was  inspiration  in  the  scene — at  least  we  felt  so,  whon 
we  composed  the  stanzas  below — with  which  we  will  fold  thies 
Magnolia  leaf,  and  send  it  abroad,  ere  it  becomes  withered  and 
defaced : 

Know  ye  the  place  where  the  white  walls  rise, 

Mid  the  waves  of  ocean  gleaming  ? 
Where  the  guardian  ramparts  meet  the  eyes, 

And  the  starry  flag  is  streaming  ? 

Know  ye  the  spot  where  at  evening's  close, 

And  at  morning's  early  breaking, 
The  music  of  battle  inspiringly  flows, 

The  rock-born  echoes  waking  ? 

Oh  !  fair  is  that  place,  where  the  sunbeams  rest 

In  their  glory  on  the  billows  ; 
Or  the  moon  on  her  native  ocean's  breast, 

Her  silvery  forehead  pillows. 

And  fair  are  those  walls  with  the  banner  that  floats, 

To  the  waves  our  triumphs  telling  ; 
And  sweet  are  those  clear  and  warlike  notes, 

On  the  ocean  breezes  swelling. 

But  fairer  still  are  the  glance  and  smile, 

That  beamed  there  a  kindly  greeting ; 
And  sweeter  the  heart-born  tones  the  while, 

Our  own  glad  accents  meeting. 

In  the  fortress  of  war,  the  home  of  the  bold, 

The  spirit  of  love  is  residing ; 
And  dove-wings  furl,  with  a  downy  fold, 

Where  the  eagle  in  power  is  presiding. 

We  stood  on  the  ramparts,  and  saw  the  white  surge 

Roll  onward,  then  hoarsely  retreating; 
Or  the  Indian  his  bark  o'er  the  blue  waters  urge, 
Some  forest  descant  repeating. 


210  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

When  evening  in  raiments  of  silver  came  on, 
How  calm  was  the  current  that  bore  us ; 

Around  us,  like  diamonds,  the  clear  ripples  shone, 
While  the  heavens  bent  glistening  o'er  us. 

But  the  ray  we  loved  was  flashing  afar, 

In  fitful,  revolving  glory  ; 
It  welcomed  us  back,  like  a  beacon  star, 

That  watched  o'er  the  battlements  hoary. 

Oh !  when,  lonely  sentinel,  when  wilt  thou  beam 
On  our  path  to  that  gem  of  the  ocean ; 

Where  life  wore  the  brightness  that  visits  our  dream, 
And  time  had  of  snow-flakes  the  motion ! 


No.  IV. 

SINCE  sending  you  the  last  Magnolia  Leaf,  we  discovered 
some  lines,  written  upon  the  beautiful  gem  of  the  ocean  we 
have  endeavoured  to  describe,  in  the  handwriting  of  him  whose 
character  adorns  this  sketch.  They  were  addressed  to  a  friend, 
and  appear  to  be  impromptu: 

"  The  rugged  isle,  the  embattled  walls, 

Where  erst  our  lives  in  concert  fell, 
Till  Time  from  hence  my  spirit  calls, 

On  memory's  fairest  page  will  dwell. 
Along  the  strand,  so  bleak  and  wild, 

Though  winds  and  waves  tempestuous  came, 
Our  martial  home  serenely  smiled, 

Illumed  by  friendship's  vestal  flame. 
Affections  there,  attuned  to  thine, 

With  social  charms  would  gild  the  hours, 
The  heart  subdue,  the  soul  refine, 

And  strew  the  soldier's  path  with  flowers." 

The  remaining  verses  are  personal,  and  may  be  omitted 
here.  They  were  composed  in  the  wintry  season,  when  the 
wild  blasts  raved  around  the  embattled  walls,  as  if  angry  with 
the  dashing  waves  that  beat  in  foam  against  them. 

We  saw  him  again  at  another  home, — a  fortress  still,  but 
more  magnificent  than  the  other.  Fort  Monroe,  at  Old  Point 
Comfort,  is  said  to  be  the  largest,  most  commanding  isolated 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  211 

fort  in  the  world.  Situated  on  the  noble  Chesapeake  Bay,  it 
looks  down  on  its  grand  expanse  of  water,  ready  to  launch  its 
thunderbolts  on  the  foe  that  would  invade  its  walls.  Close  by 
are  the  Rip  Raps,  or  Castle  Calhoun,  as  it  is  also  called, — a 
fort  constructed  of  rock,  on  a  foundation  of  stone,  sunk  deep 
into  the  Bay.  JNjothing  can  look  more  bleak  and  isolated  than 
this  rocky  hermitage,  which  was  destined  to  rise  in  castellated 
grandeur  above  the  element  whose  dominions  it  had  invaded  ; , 
but,  owing  to  the  incalculable  amount  of  labour  required  for 
its  completion,  it  remains  unfinished,  and,  at  a  little  distance, 
looks  like  a  huge  rock,  heaved  up  from  the  bed  of  the  ocean. 
Parties  of  pleasure  from  the  Fortress,  in  barges  and  sail-boats, 
resort  to  this  lonely  retreat ;  and  the  weary  statesman  often 
escapes  from  the  halls  of  Congress,  to  spend  a  few  days  there 
in  solitude  and  meditation.  We  might  have  called  it  a  modern 
Delos,  thus  born  in  the  ocean  by  the  creating  power  of  man ; 
but  where  were  the  emerald  carpet  and  glowing  flowers  of  the 
Grecian  isle  ? 

Nothing  was  more  frequent,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when 
the  Bay  was  lashed  by  the  storm-spirit,  than  for  vessels  to  be 
wrecked  within  sight  of  the  Fort.  Agiiin  and  again,  with 
dauntless  chivalry,  had  the  gallant  soldier,  gathering  round 
him  a  baud  of  comrades,  gone  out  to  the  rescue,  and  won  the 
blessing  of  the  drowning  mariner.  One  dark,  tempestuous 
night,  when  the  earth  was  covered  with  snow  and  ice,  the 
signal  of  distress  was  heard,  and  a  ship  was  seen,  drifted  by 
the  wind,  and  tossing  on  the  wrathful  billows.  Regardless  of 
the  roaring  elements,  drenched,  chilled,  benumbed,  he  passed 
the  whole  night  in  the  work  of  preservation.  In  returning  to 
the  Fort,  his  foot  slipped  on  the  frozen  ground,  and  he  fell, 
apparently  without  injury.  Inflammatory  fever  was  the  con- 
sequence of  the  night's  exposure;  and  when  he  rose  from  his 
sick-bed,  a  slight  lameness  of  the  knee  reminded  him  of  the 
forgotten  fall.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  a  death-stroke ; 
for,  from  that  moment,  slowly,  but  certainly,  began  to  fail  one 
of  the  most  glorious  constitutions  God  ever  bestowed  on  man. 
What  a  terrible  infliction  to  one  of  his  stately  mien,  his  firm 
and  martial  tread !  Yet  no  one  dreamed  of  its  being  a  per- 
manent injury,  and  his  elastic  spirit  never  yielded  to  despond- 
ency. It  was  about  this  time  that  he  accompanied  us  in  a 
journey  over  the  Alloghany;  and  never  shall  we  forget  the 
glowing  enthusiasm  with  which  he  would  indicate  the  sublime 
and  magnificent  features  of  that  mountain  highway,  the  fasci- 


212  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

nation  of  his  conversation,  the  play  of  his  fancy,  and  the  vivid- 
ness of  his  intellect.  Weariness  was  forgotten,  and  apprehen- 
sion beguiled.  Whether  passing  through  some  rocky  gorge, 
that  threatened  to  enclose  us  in  its  narrow  and  rugged  passage, 
— winding  round  the  steep,  dizzy  verge  of  the  mountain-top, 
high  as  the  eagle's  eyrie, — or  poised  on  the  brink  of  the  Hau-k's 
Nest,  above  the  murmuring  Kanawa,  which  flows  eiyht  hundred 
feet  below, — he  was  still  the  same  bright,  mastering  spirit. 
What  a  difference  in  travellers !  What  a  difference  in  human 
beings  !  There  was  a  gentleman,  who  was  our  fellow-traveller, 
who  scarcely  uttered  a  syllable  the  whole  way; — who  seemed 
perfectly  unmoved  while,  bathed  in  sunshine,  he  looked  down 
on  clouds  rolling  and  lightnings  darting  below,  or  when  the 
mountain-side  was  covered  with  one  broad  sheet  of  rainbow. 
In  passing  through  Charlotteville,  we  beheld  the  summit  of 
Monticello,  leaning  on  the  golden  bosom  of  sunset.  He,  our 
military  companion,  was  an  impassioned  admirer  of  the  genius 
of  Jefferson,  and  proposed  a  visit  to  the  former  residence  of 
this  great  statesman. 

The  day  was  one  of  the  fairest  the  sun  ever  made  with  his 
autumnal  beams.  The  air  was  so  clear  and  refreshing,  it 
seemed  to  give  one  wings  to  waft  them  to  the  mountain's  top. 
Arrived  there,  what  a  prospect  unfolded  to  the  eye ! — what  a 
glorious  panorama  !  On  one  side,  the  Blue  Ridge  hung  its 
undulating  and  heaven-sweeping  drapery  of  mist ;  on  the  other, 
the  majestic  Rotunda  of  the  University,  with  its  classic  build- 
ings,— specimens  of  the  different  orders  of  architecture, — 
brought  the  refinements  of  Art  in  beautiful  contrast  with  the 
freedom  and  magnificence  of  Nature.  The  morning  breeze 
sighed  through  the  branches  of  the  forest  trees  which  surrounded 
the  dwelling,  and  seemed  breathing  a  requiem  over  departed 
greatness.  The  sage  of  Monticello  had  planted  those  trees 
with  his  own  hand,  gathering  together  in  one  brotherhood  all 
that  are  natives  of  the  forests  of  Virginia,  thus  leaving  a 
monument  grander  than  marble,  and  more  worthy  of  his  fame. 
We  sat  down  on  the  long  grass  beneath  those  rustling  trees, 
and  gazed  around  in  silence.  The  oppression  of  great  feeling 
was  upon  us,  and  speech  is  not  for  such  moments.  If  the 
episode  will  be  pardoned  in  this  brief  and  unpretending  life- 
sketch,  we  will  give  a  few  lines  to  the  description  of  the 
mansion  Jefferson  once  occupied;  for  Monticello,  like  Mount 
Vernon,  is  our  country's  classic  ground. 

The  house  is  built  in  the  form  of  a  rotunda,  and  has  some- 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  213 

thing  of  the  air  of  a  Grecian  temple.  The  architecture  is 
beautiful,  but  the  proportions  are  too  small  for  the  magnificence 
of  the  design.  The  windows  of  the  dome  are  skylights,  which 
let  in  a  flood  of  sunshine,  that  must  be  oppressive  in  sultry 
seasons.  As  you  enter  the  vestibule,  the  eye  is  arrested  by  a 
bust  of  the  statesman,  placed  on  a  colossal  pedestal  of  black 
ingrained  marble,  presiding  in  lonely  majesty  over  the  entrance 
of  the  dwelling.  The  floors  are  of  tesselated  wood,  giving  a 
peculiar  and  foreign  aspect  to  the  rooms.  But  the  impress  of 
other  hands  is  there,  and  destroys  in  a  measure  the  interest 
of  association.  The  mount  itself  was  his  dwelling-place — and 
there  his  memory  will  remain,  though  his  mansion  be  converted 
to  purposes  of  utility  and  shorn  of  its  original  brightness.  Wo 
would  gladly  linger  on  every  incident  of  that  journey,  which 
developed  the  noble,  self-sacrificing  character  of  our  soldier- 
companion  ;  but  if  we  did,  volumes  would  be  written,  and  we 
fear  to  blend  too  much  egotism  with  a  record,  intended  as  an 
example  of  social  grace  and  moral  excellence. 

From  this  time  the  shadow  deepened.  The  active  duties 
of  life  were  suspended — alas  !  never  to  be  resumed  again.  It 
was  hard  to  leave  a  station  endeared  by  domestic  associations, 
at  a  time  too,  when  the  honours  of  promotion  rested  upon  him  ; 
but  he  was  advised  to  seek  medical  advice  in  a  northern  clime, 
and  returned  a  drooping  invalid  to  the  home  of  his  boyhood. 
There,  amid  the  love  scenes  of  his  nativity,  surrounded  by 
idolizing  kindred,  devoted  friends,  and  cheered  by  that  loving 
smile,  which  "  no  cloud  could  o'ercast,"  the  soldier's  last  tent 
was  made. 

In  a  letter  dated  at  this  time,  he  says  : — 

"  I  am  grateful  to  Heaven  for  the  opportunities  with  which 
I  have  been  blessed  of  seeing  you  at  our  martial  home  in  Vir- 
ginia, and  during  our  memorable,  never  to  be  forgotten  jour- 
ney over  the  cloud-capped  Alleghany.  These  are  among  the 
dearest  recollections  of  my  life,  and  I  cherish  them  the  more 
fondly,  as  I  am  now  bereft  of  that  health,  vigour,  and  buoyancy 
of  spirit,  those  qualifications  as  a  traveller,  in  which  I  once 
exulted.  I  must  now  sustain  the  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unpro- 
fitable character  of  a  broken  soldier.  The  inspiring  music  of 
the  war-band,  the  rustling  of  the  star-spangled  banner,  will 
never  more  call  me  to  the  ramparts,  which  I  once  loved  to 
tread.  '  Othello's  occupation's  gone.'  " 

Everything  which  affection  could  suggest,  or  ingenuity  exe- 
cute, was  done  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  his  life.  Iluilinga 


214  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

were  put  up  along  the  smooth  green  sward,  on  either  side  of 
the  dwelling-house,  to  support  his  steps  as  he  walked,  and 
rustic  seats  erected  under  the  luxuriant  shade  trees,  where  he 
could  sit  and  enjoy  the  sweet  influences  of  nature.  He  would 
sit  for  hours  in  the  moonlight,  gazing  in  silence  on  that  calm, 
beauteous  orb,  that  reflected  its  lustre  on  his  pale,  placid  face, 
and  to  those  who  remembered  his  restless,  energetic  movements 
in  health,  this  deep  tranquillity  and  meditation  was  sad  and 
touching.  It  seemed  as  if  the  ebbing  tide  of  his  life,  as  it 
rolled  beneath  the  trembling  rays,  was  subsiding  into  a  peace- 
ful equilibrium.  Nature  brooded  lovingly  and  mournfully  over 
her  languishing  votary,  while  her  stilly  dews  wept  around 
him. 

And  so  he  passed  away.  The  brave,  the  noble,  the  gene- 
rous, and  the  gifted.  It  was  when  the  twilight  shades  were 
beginning  to  fall,  that  they  turned  from  the  grave  where  he  was 
laid,  and  the  moon — that  moon  which  he  had  so  much  loved  to 
gaze  upon — came  forth,  as  if  on  purpose  to  illumine  the  spot, 
and  to  light  the  mourners  on  their  sad  homeward  path.  What 
were  now  its  beams  to  him,  who  had  gone  to  that  world  where 
there  is  no  sun  nor  moon,  but  where  the  Lord  God  is  the  light  ? 
"What  were  they  to  those  whose  weeping  hearts  were  folded  in 
the  darkness  of  sorrow,  which  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  alone 
could  disperse  ? 

Rest,  soldier,  rest.  The  spot  where  thou  reposest  is  holy 
ground.  Rest  beside  the  mother — once  a  saint  on  earth,  now 
an  angel  in  Heaven — rest  beside  her,  whose  widowed  breast 
thy  filial  tenderness  had  embalmed  and  gladdened — by  the 
sister,  whose  memory  was  a  holy  incense  burning  in  the  heart's 
censer — by  the  kindred  dust  of  earlier  generations.  It  is 
glorious  to  die  on  the  battle-field,  with  the  oriflamme  of  our 
country  for  a  winding-sheet — but  it  is  sweet  to  sleep  on  the 
native  soil,  surrounded  by  the  graves  of  a  homestead. 


No.  V. 

WE  wish  the  breeze  that  wafts  our  frail  leaves  away  from 
us,  would  bring  us  back  a  token  that  they  have  been  gathered 
by  some  friendly  hand,  and  preserved  in  some  herbarium, 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  215 

•where  heart-blossoms  and  leaflets  are  tenderly  cherished.  Our 
thoughts,  like  the  Arctic  dove,  go  forth,  in  search  of  some 
green  pledge  of  sunshine,  and  oft  come  back,  without  finding 
rest  or  the  blooming  olive.  Why  this  feeling  comes  over  us, 
we  cannot  tell ;  perhaps  our  task  is  too  saddening.  We  fear 
we  make  others  sad,  and  yet  there  is  a  fascination  in  it,  that 
binds  us  down  to  the  spot,  where  stands  the  open  trunk  with 
the  packets  scattered  around.  We  were  here  weeks  ago,  and 
here  we  linger  still.  We  can  realize  the  charm  which  led  Old 
Mortality  to  the  burial-ground  of  the  covenanters,  that  he 
might  clear  away  the  mossy  veil  which  covered  their  monu- 
ments, and  lift  up  the  daisy  and  the  harebell,  that  drooped 
beneath  its  shade.  It  is  true,  the  memories  awakened  here 
are  of  recent  date.  The  moss  and  rank  growth  of  time  have 
not  obscured  the  traces  on  the  tablet ;  but  when  we  look  back 
to  the  past,  the  irrevocable,  even  if  the  glance  has  only  months 
or  days  to  travel  over,  the  view  seems  receding,  and  we  turn 
to  memory's  lamp  and  feed  it  with  the  oil  of  meditation.  Here 
are  some  fugitive  poems,  written  by  the  soldier  poet,  the  elder 
brother  of  the  one  who  formed  the  subject  of  our  last  sketch. 
He  was  accustomed  to  twine  with  the  laurels  of  war,  the 
flowers  of  fancy  and  the  myrtle  of  love.  They  were  like 
other  flowers,  mostly  ephemeral;  but  some  of  them  are  too 
sweet  to  wither  away,  like  the  grass  of  the  field,  unnoticed 
and  unregretted.  These  stanzas  were  written  on  the  eve  of 
battle,  and  are  descriptive  of  the  character  of  the  writer,  who, 
through  the  densest  smoke  of  carnage,  could  feel  some  gleam 
of  sunshine  in  his  heart : 

When  far  from  his  friends  and  his  dear  native  home, 
The  soldier  to  fight  for  his  country  doth  roam  ; 
How  sweet  the  reflection,  though  far  he  has  strayed, 
That  still  he  is  dear  to  some  beautiful  maid, 
Whose  fears  fondly  follow  his  steps  to  the  field— 
Whose  prayers  ask  of  Heaven  his  bosom  to  shield. 

At  night,  when  encamped  on  the  dewy  cold  ground, 
He  dreams  that  her  spirit  is  hovering  around  ; 
Her  image,  which  fancy  delights  to  portray, 
Enlivens  his  march  through  the  wearisome  day — 
And  even  in  battle  he  thinks  of  the  fair, 
Whose  hand  for  his  brow  shall  the  laurel  prepare. 

His  love  for  music  was  a  passion.  It  filled  him  with  divine 
emotions.  At  the  close  of  a  short  poem,  we  find  the  following 
heart-gushing  strain,  after  speaking  of  the  influence  of  music  : 


216  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

If  e'er  I  live  to  see  the  day 

When  age  hath  made  me  hoar — 
When  pleasures  gliding  swift  away 

Delight  my  heart  no  more — 
Oh !  may  I  have  a  daughter  fair, 

A  slave  to  music's  power, 
Whose  art  shall  blunt  the  edge  of  care, 

And  soothe  my  dying  hour — 
And  when  she  strikes  the  harmonious  strings, 

To  sweet  delusion  given, 
My  soul  shall  mount  on  music's  wing, 

And  fancied  soar  to  Heaven. 

Many  such  gems  as  these  lie  hid  in  the  casket,  hoarded  by 
affection  and  considered  as  sacred  relics.  Some  have  been 
given  to  the  world.  It  was  his  destiny  as  a  soldier,  to  be 
stationed  far  from  all  social  privileges  and  enjoyments,  his 
only  companions  being  the  soldiers  of  his  camp,  and  the  red 
warriors  of  the  wilderness. 

"  I  write,"  he  says,  "  by  the  roar  of  the  cataract,  and  the 
murmurs  of  the  forest." 

He  who  had  been  accustomed  to  shine  in  the  circles  of 
fashion,  a  bright,  ascendant  star,  the  "observed  of  all  ob- 
servers," the  gayest  of  the  gay,  as  the  most  graceful,  elegant 
and  fascinating  of  men,  strung  his  lyre  on  the  wild  banks  of 
the  Mississippi,  and  sighed  not,  though  there  were  none  to 
listen  to  its  numbers.  He  found  a  charm  in  intellectual  pur- 
suits, which  beguiled  solitude  of  its  weariness,  and  made  hiui 
independent  of  circumstance  and  place.  In  the  long  and 
bloody  Mexican  campaign,  they  were  his  solace  and  recrea- 
tion. Aud  here  he  attained  a  prouder  distinction  than  he 
had  won  in  earlier  years,  as  the  star  of  fashion  and  flower 
of  chivalry.  He  was  known  throughout  the  camp  as  the 
Christian  soldier,  for  the  crowning  glory  of  religion  was  now 
added  to  his  virtues  and  graces,  and  tbd  cloud  which  rested 
over  the  tents  of  Israel  hovered  over  his  own.  We  feel  con- 
strained to  record  a  beautiful  incident  which  occurred  during 
the  battle  of  Monterey,  where  for  three  days  he  fought  by  the 
side  of  the  gallant  Taylor.  Towards  the  close  of  the  terrible 
strife,  while  the  dead  and  the  dying  strewed  the  ensanguined 
earth,  through  the  cannon's  breath,  his  glance  fell  upon  a  little 
delicate  flower,  a  Morning  Glory,  blooming  by  the  wayside,  and 
lifting  up  its  sweet  and  fearless  brow  to  the  God  of  battles.  At 
sight  of  this  little  flower,  a  vision  of  home,  of  pure,  home-born 
joys  and  affections,  passed  instantaneously  before  him  The 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  217 

brave  heart  which  had  been  so  dauntlessly  opposed  to  a  vin- 
dictive foe,  melted  to  all  a  woman's  tenderness,  and  tears 
gathered  in  the  soldier's  flashing  eye.  His  thoughts  flowed, 
without  any  volition  of  his  own,  into  the  melody  of  poetry,  and 
that  night,  when  he,  retired  to  his  tent,  after  unbuckling  his 
weary  sword,  he  committed  to  paper  a  poem,  called  the 
"  Morning  Grlory  of  the  fields  of  Monterey."  We  look  in 
vain  among  these  papers  for  the  beautiful  lines — for  this 
flower,  born  of  blood  and  carnage — this  Picciola  of  the  battle- 
field. Oh,  brave  and  tender,  pure  and  holy  heart,  art  thou 
indeed  still  and  pulseless?  Has  the  indwelling  Deity  departed, 
leaving  the  noble  temple  to  crumble  into  dust?  Yes!  Ho 
who  had  passed  unscathed  through  the  lightnings  of  war.  was 
suddenly  smitten  by  the  angel  of  Death  on  a  peaceful  home- 
ward journey.  Instantaneously  as  the  electric  flash,  the  bolt 
descended,  and  the  warrior  bowed  to  man's  last  enemy.  He 
fell,  as  the  oak  of  the  forest  falls,  firm  and  stately  to  the  las.t 
— fell  as  the  tree  falls,  when  a  strong  wind  sweeps  over  it,  or 
the  lightning  blasts  it.  Is  not  such  a  glorious  death  to  die  ? 
To  be  spared  the  humiliating  process  of  dependence  and  decay, 
the  gloomy  passage  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
the  cold  wading  of  the  waters  of  Jordan;  the  pains,  the  agonies, 
the  expiring  conflict;  to  be  one  moment  on  earth,  the  next  in 
heaven  ;  to  gaze  one  moment  on  the  mild  features  of  a  beloved 
wife — the  next  upon  that  glory  of  glories,  whose  very  thought 
annihilates  the  faint  reaching  spirit  ?  He  was  prepared  for 
the  conqueror's  coming.  Though  the  joys  of  earth  were  sweet, 
heaven  was  sweeter  still,  and  with  it  he  had  long  held  close 
and  divine  communion.  There  were  loved  ones  there,  who  had 
gone  before,  whom  his  spirit  longed  to  embrace.  The  parents 
whom  next  to  his  Grod  he  reverenced,  the  children  who  were 
taken  from  him  in  the  innocency  and  beauty  of  early  child- 
hood, and  the  brother  he  had  so  much  loved.  Not  till  the 
dark,  dark  hour,  had  he  deferred  the  work  of  preparation. 
There  was  a  daily  sanctity  in  his  life,  that  anointed  him  for 
the  sacrifice  of  death. 

Man  has  been  compared  to  a  ruined  temple,  whose  pillars 
of  original  beauty  and  symmetry  are  broken  and  defaced, 
stamped  with  the  genius  of  the  Divine  Architect,  but  incapable 
of  being  restored  to  their  pristine  grandeur.  But  he  seemed 
a  temple  with  all  its  fair  proportions  unmarred  and  unchanged  ; 
no  trace  of  ruin  was  there.  Firmness,  dignity,  simplicity,  and 
truth,  were  the  Doric  columns  that  supported  it — tenderness, 
131 


218  MAGNOLIA    LEAVES. 

sensibility,  and  grace,  its  Corinthian  ornaments — and  religion, 
the  sun-gilt  dome  that  crowned  and  perfected  the  noble  fabric. 
There  was  an  altar  within  that  temple,  where  the  incense  of 
prayer  and  praise  were  ever  ascending,  and  the  threshold  was 
sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  the  Eternal  Sacrifice. 

He  is  gone.  His  memory  is  honoured  among  men.  He 
had  attained  the  highest  military  honours,  the  most  enviable 
social  distinctions.  But  others  will  fill  the  high  military 
station  made  vacant  by  his  death,  and  it  is  easy  for  society  to 
find  new  idols  in  place  of  those  it  has  lost.  But  there  are 
hearts  which  feel  a  vacuum  which  must  for  ever  ache — places, 
which,  knowing  him  no  more,  wear  the  sadness  and  desolation 
of  the  tomb.  His  death  is  the  shadow  which  rests  upon  the 
homestead.  How  deep  the  chill  upon  its  warm,  affectionate 
hearts  !  The  aspect  of  nature  is  changed.  The  wind,  which 
made  an  anthem  of  praise  among  the  boughs  of  the  elm  trees, 
now  wails  with  dirge-like  melancholy  through  the  foliage,  and 
the  moon  itself  shines  with  a  sickly  lustre,  as  if  mourning  for 
a  departed  worshipper. 

Ah !  how  true  it  is,  that  the  more  love,  the  more  sorrow ! 
It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  love  intensely,  when  our  hold  on  those 
we  love  is  more  slender  than  the  silk-worm's  thread.  Yet  who 
would  live  unloving,  that  they  may  live  unsorrowing  ?  Who, 
even  after  time  has  assuaged  the  first  agonies  of  bereavement, 
would  exchange  the  memory  for  the  hope  of  joy  ?  Joys 
remembered,  are  still  our  own — dearer  in  retrospect  than  in 
possession — ours  by  a  security  the  future  cannot  know,  and  a 
holy  seal  that  belongs  only  to  the  past.  "  Lord,  keep  my 
memory  green,"  is  the  deep  prayer  of  humanity.  "  Blot  out, 
if  it  must  be,  the  remembrance  of  pleasure,  but  let  that  of 
happiness  remain ;  and  if  that,  too,  must  fade  away,  sweep  not 
away  the  recollection  of  suffering,  the  purifier  and  glorifier  of 
the  soul." 

It  is  by  contemplating  the  character  of  departed  friends,  that 
we  keep  "  their  memory  green  in  our  souls."  It  is  by  dwelling 
on  their  virtues,  that  their  image  becomes  indelibly  imprinted 
on  our  hearts.  The  mere  act  of  recording  the  feelings  awaken- 
ed by  these  letters,  deepens  and  strengthens  them.  What ! 
burn  these  papers,  mementoes  of  the  noblest,  best,  and  purest 
of  human  beings — these  breathings  of  affection  and  these  over- 
flowings of  intellect !  Mingle  them  with  the  rubbish  and 
waste  things  of  life — consign  them  to  ashes  and  oblivion  !  No  1 
if  we  could  give  them  to  the  flames,  it  would  be  as  the  Komans 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  219 

committed  their  dead  to  the  burning  pyre — sacredly,  reli- 
giously— and  after  having  seen  them  pass  through  the  fiery 
process,  collect  the  dust  into  an  urn,  and  clasp  it  to  our  hearts 
as  a  holy  deposit. 

We  pity  those  who  have  never  felt  the  thrill  which  pene- 
trates the  whole  be'ing,  when  brought  into  sudden  communion 
with  the  spirit  of  departed  friends.  It  is  an  earnest  of  future, 
unending  intercourse,  of  immortality,  of  eternity.  When  we 
write,  the  thought  that  the  characters  we  are  drawing  will 
survive  the  hand  that  traced  them,  should  make  us  rejoice  and 
tremble — rejoice,  that  the  gcho  of  our  souls  may  be  heard 
through  distant  years  to  come — tremble,  lest  it  repeat  what 
may  give  us  immortal  regret. 

Lord  Littleton  bestowed  on  Thomson  the  greatest  praise 
ever  given  to  man,  when  he  said,  his  works  contained  "  no  line 
which,  dying,  he  could  wish  to  blot." 


No.  VI. 

WE  will  pluck  some  fresh  and  blooming  leaves.  We  will 
lay  an  offering  on  the  altar  of  hope,  instead  of  memory.  We 
will  look  on  the  sunny  side  of  life,  instead  of  its  shadows. 

The  letters  of  a  young  and  happy  wife  must  contain  passages 
of  interest.  We  will  loosen  the  packet,  perfumed  with  gera- 
nium and  verbena,  which,  though  faded  and  dry,  give  a  fra- 
grance to  the  papers  congenial  to  the  sweetness  of  their  contents. 
The  writer  is  one  of  those  bright,  gentle,  lovely  beings,  that 
win  the  love  and  admiration  of  all.  There  is  something  in 
her  soft,  smiling  eyes  that  seems  to  say,  "  Do  you  love  me  ? 
Will  you  love  me  ?  I  can  love  you  most  dearly  in  return." 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet,  her  motions  graceful  and  womanly. 
Before  her  marriage,  she  was  the  idol  of  her  father's  family, 
— "  the  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all."  Her  brothers,  two 
of  whom  were  candidates  for  collegiate  honours,  treated  her 
with  a  kind  of  chivalrous  courtesy,  seldom  exhibited  to  a 
sister,  however  beautiful  and  affectionate.  When  she  played 
and  sung,  they  would  stand  by  her  side,  in  silent  attention, 
turning  the  leaves  of  her  music-book,  and  rewarding  her  with 
approving  smiles.  Natural  affection,  thus  fed  by  daily,  hourly 


220  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

gifts,  became  purer  and  stronger  with  every  passing  day.  "  I 
never  shall  marry,"  she  would  often  say,  "  for  I  never  can 
love  any  one  as  well  as  my  own  dear  brothers.  I  feel  as  if  I 
would  be  perfectly  happy  to  remain  as  I  am,  all  my  life,  pro- 
vided they  should  form  no  dearer  ties.  I  fear  their  love  has 
made  me  selfish  and  exacting ;  for  the  thought  of  ever  being 
supplanted  in  their  affections  gives  me  exquisite  pain." 

\0ne  of  these  beloved  brothers  died  in  college,  of  an  inflam 
mation  of  the  brain,  brought  on  by  excessive  application  to  his 
studies.  He  was  a  delicate,  slender,  sweet-voiced  youth,  too 
sensitive  and  refined  to  come  in  collision  with  common,  every- 
day mortals.  The  dew  of  piety  gemmed  the  flower  of  his 
youth. 

"  He  sparkled,  was  exhaled,  and  went  to  Heaven." 

Death  was  a  blessing  to  him,  for  life  would  have  been  filled 
with  suffering.  He  had  tasted  only  its  vernal  sweets,  and 
passed  away  before  the  mildew  and  the  frost  had  fallen.  We 
saw  her  when  in  mourning  for  this  idol  of  her  sisterly  heart, 
and  never  beheld  a  more  interesting  object.  Her  sable  dress 
formed  a  striking  relief  for  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  com- 
plexion, and  a  misty  veil  seemed  resting  on  her  smiling,  hazel 
eyes.  We  felt,  in  a  moment,  she  had  been  looking  on  death 
since  last  we  met.  She  spoke  of  him  as  an  angel  in  heaven, 
— as  one  who  was  beckoning  her  to  follow. 

"  He  was  too  good,  too  pure  for  earth,"  she  said,  "  and  God 
took  him  to  himself.  But  if  ever  departed  spirits  are  per- 
mitted to  minister  to  those  they  loved  on  earth,  I  know  his 
guardian  wings  will  hover  round  my  head." 

Several  years  passed  away,  when  a  letter  came,  announcing 
her  marriage  with  a  young  lawyer  of  rising  reputation.  She 
had  gone  far  from  the  home  of  her  youth,  the  scenes  of  her 
childhood,  to  be  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land; — that  gentle, 
yielding  creature,  who  had  breathed  only  an  atmosphere  of 
love, — who  had  never  learned  one  lesson  of  self-dependence  or 
self-denial.  The  energies  of  her  character  had  never  been 
called  forth;  they  had  remained  in  a  state  of  quiescence, 
gathering  strength  from  repose.  Here  is  an  extract  from  one 
of  her  first  letters,  written  in  the  warm  glow  of  bridal  happi- 
ness, under  the  excitement  of  novelty  and  the  awakening 
influences  of  new  connexions  : 

"  Rejoice  with  me,  my  own  dear  friend,  for  I  am  happy 
beyond  my  sex's  charter.  I  once  thought  my  capacities  of 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  221 

happiness  were  all  filled;  but  I  was  mistaken.  I  find  the 
more  I  enjoy,  the  more  I  am  capable  of  enjoying;  the  more  I 
love,  the  more  I  am  capable  of  loving.  There  was  a  deep 
chamber  in  my  heart  that  had  never  known  an  inmate ;  now 
it  has  a  royal  guest,  to  whom  I  am  proud  to  pay  kingly 
homage !  Ah !  I  find  there  is  a  love  dearer  than  that  of 
brother,  tenderer  than  that  of  friend.  I  look  back  upon  the 
visions  of  felicity  which  formerly  passed  before  me,  and  smile 
at  the  retrospect.  I  used  to  think  that  to  accompany  my 
beloved  Edmund  (this  was  the  brother  who  died  in  college) 
to  India's  sultry  clime,  as  a  missionary  to  the  benighted 
heathen,  would  be  the  crown  of  my  hopes  and  rejoicing.  I 
thought  while  he  was  preaching  I  would  teach,  and  prepare 
the  darkened  minds  of  those  poor  children  for  the  celestial 
seed  his  hand  would  plant.  Then,  again,  I  would  dream  of 
quiet  domestic  enjoyment  in  my  sweet  sister's  family,  as  the 
good  Aunt  Alice  of  her  darling  children.  To  sit  down  at  twi- 
light in  her  snug,  pleasant  parlour,  and  gather  round  me  the 
little  golden-pated  cherubs,  while  I  increased  the  circumference 
of  their  large  blue  eyes  by  telling  them  wondrous  tales  of  the 
Genii,  or  drew  forth  the  crystalline  drops  by  relating  the 
pathetic  history  of  the  Babes  of  the  Woods,  or  the  mournful 
death  of  Cock-Robin.  By  and  by,  I  would  become  venerable, 
and  they  would  call  me  '  Mistress  Alice ;'  and  I  would  mount 
spectacles  on  my  nose,  and  fill  my  pockets  with  sugar-plums 
and  chestnuts  for  my  great-nieces  and  nephews.  Ah  !  my 
chateaux  en  Expagne  are  all  demolished  or  blown  down  by  the 
breath  of  love.  I  have  built  me  a  bower  of  roses,  where 
singing  birds  make  their  nests,  and  the  wild  vines  hang  in 
beautiful  festoons.  Will  you  not  come  and  share  it  with  me  ? 
"Let  me  describe  the  magnificent  scenery  on  which,  by 
merely  lifting  my  eyes  from  the  paper,  I  can  gaze  till  it  is 
daguerreotyped  on  my  mind.  In  front  is  a  green,  green  lawn, 
shaded  by  locust  trees,  which  are  now  in  full  bloom,  and  actually 
burden  the  air  with  their  fragrance.  A  grove  of  mulberries 
is  on  the  right, — the  Morus  Multicaulis, — planted,  probably, 
when  the  silk-worm  fever  was  at  its  height,  and  every  one 
expected  to  walk  in  silken  attire.  On  the  left  is  an  ample 
garden,  adorned  with  every  variety  of  flower  and  flowering 
shrubs.  You,  who  so  worship  flowers,  shall  have  a  bouquet 
every  morning,  before  the  sunbeams  have  kissed  off  the  dew 
Do  you  see  a  green  hillock,  not  very  far  off,  rising  on  the 
north-east  ?  It  is  an  Indian  mound,  and  is  remarkable  for  the 


222  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

symmetry  of  its  form  and  the  luxuriant  shrubbery  at  its  base. 
Look  still  farther,  at  the  blue  outline  of  the  distant  hills,  and 
listen  to  the  musical  murmurs  that  come  with  such  a  cool, 
dreamy,  lulling  sound  to  the  ear,  telling  of  many  things  which 
every  one  does  not  understand.  'Tis  the  voice  of  the  deep- 
rolling  Tennessee,  that  winds  majestically  on  the  left,  through 
one  of  the  loveliest  valleys  in  the  world. 

"  '  You  write  too  long  letters !'  cries  my  husband,  who  is 
looking  over  my  shoulder  at  this  moment.  (  Very  rude,  is  it 
not?)  '  I  shall  be  jealous  of  your  absent  friends.  Come  and 
let  us  walk  to  the  Indian  mound,  and  gather  some  of  the 
beautiful  wild  flowers  that  embroider  it.  You  know  you  pro- 
mised to  make  an  herbarium  for  our  excellent  friend,  Doctor 

.  Flower  of  my  life,  so  lovely  and  so  lone,  come  and 

wander  awhile  among  your  floral  sisters.' 

"  I  cannot  resist  that  charming,  poetic  appeal.  I  know  not 
which  I  love  best,  praise  or  poetry ;  but  there  is  one  thing  I 
love  better  than  both,  and  that  is  the  husband  who  can  so 
gracefully  quote  the  one  and  so  affectionately  administer  the 
other.  Lord  and  master  of  my  heart,  I  obey  thy  summons. 
I  throw  down  the  pen ;  I  spring  to  follow  thee.  Adieu,  dear 
friend ;  when  I  return,  I  will  resume  my  letter ;  and,  I  doubt 
not,  my  ideas  will  be  vivified  by  the  western  breeze  and  the 
glorious  prospect  of  the  setting  sun." 

When  the  pen  is  again  resumed,  we  can  see,  by  the  greater 
emphasis  of  the  letters,  the  freer,  more  dashing,  strokes,  that 
her  spirits  have  gained  elasticity,  and  her  mind  force,  from 
her  evening  walk  to  the  red  man's  green-swarded  mound. 

"  Oh  I"  she  continues,  "  I  have  had  such  a  charming  walk  ! 
— you  would  envy  me  if  you  knew  how  charming.  How  I 
wish  you  knew  my  husband;  I  think,  I  know,  you  would 
appreciate  the  beauty  and  excellence  of  his  character.  I  do 
not  think  I  can  feel  perfectly  happy  till  you  come  and  see  me, 
and  give  me  an  opportunity  of  introducing  to  each  other  two 
friends  so  precious  to  my  soul.  Let  me  describe  him.  He  is 
not  very  handsome,  perhaps,  but  he  has  a  most  expressive  and 
engaging  countenance.  He  is  very  dark,  has  very  dark  and 
glossy  hair,  and  eyes  so  black,  so  bright,  yet  soft,  you  wonder 
that  such  brightness  and  softness  should  not  neutralize  each 
other.  Then  he  has  such  a  sweet-toned  voice, — so  sweet,  yet 
manly,  that  it  lends  a  charm  to  everything  he  utters.  I  wish 
you  could  hear  him  recite  poetry.  I  always  was  passionately 
fond  of  poetry.  You  know  I  have  sometimes  tried  to  rhyme 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  223 

myself;  but  I  never  knew  its  full  and  perfect  melody  till  I 
beard  it  from  his  lips.  I  should  not  omit  in  this  description 
the  uncommon  beauty  of  his  mouth  and  teeth, — ivory  gates, 
from  which  nothing  ever  issues  but  pure,  and  gentle,  and 
endearing  words. 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  what  am  I,  that  I  should  be  so  blest  above 
women  ? — that  I  should  have  won  the  undivided,  the  first 
affection  of  so  exalted,  so  amiable  a  being  ?  It  is  with  deep 
and  unaffected  humility  that  I  give  expression  to  these  feelings. 
I  do  not  depreciate  myself  that  others  may  praise ;  but  true 
love,  I  believe,  is  always  humble; — I  humble  myself  that  he 
may  be  exalted. 

"  '•  Conceit,  more  rich  in  matter  than  in  words, 
Brags  of  his  substance,  not  of  ornament ; 
They  are  but  beggars  that  can  count  their  worth ; 
But  my  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth.' 

"You  know  I  have  been  an  indulged  and  petted  child, 
cradled  in  the  lap  of  affluence  and  ease ;  that  I  have  known 
but  two  trials; — one,  the  loss  of  my  angel  brother,  the  other, 
separation  from  my  kindred  and  friends ;  the  last  no  infliction 
of  the  Almighty,  but  imposed  by  my  own  free  will  and  choice. 
Since  the  awakening  of  my  heart,  I  feel  as  if  it  had  powers  of 
endurance  of  which  previously  I  had  never  dreamed.  I  almost 
wish  that  want  were  our  portion,  that  I  might  show  my  hus- 
band how  willingly,  how  bravely  I  could  toil,  and  share  the 
heat  and  burden  of  his  day  of  care ; — how  freely  these  hands, 
which  have  never  yet  been  hardened  by  labour,  should  minister 
to  his  necessities  and  increase  his  comforts. 

"  You  may  say  it  is  very  easy  to  sit  securely  in  the  harbour 
and  tell  how  you  would  brave  the  tempest  and  battle  with  the 
thunder;  but  I  do  think,  were  I  exposed  to  the  storms  and 
billows  of  life,  my  spirit  would  rise  with  the  rising  surges, 
possessed  of  too  much  vitality  to  sink  below  them.  Do  not 
laugh  at  me ;  for,  of  all  things,  I  dread  the  shaft  of  ridicule, 
especially  when  wrought  up  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  present 
moment.  No ;  I  do  not  fear  your  laughter.  You  may  smile, 
for  the  smiles  of  a  friend  are  the  sunshine  of  the  soul.  Fare- 
well." 

My  next  leaf  shall  bear  on  its  surface  another  letter  from 
my  charming  friend.  One  glance  into  the  inner  chamber  of 
a  pure  and  loving  heart  is  worth  a  panoramic  view  of  the  mere 


224  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

purface  of  society.  We  all  love  to  know  what  is  passing  in  the 
hearts  of  others,  and  letters  are  the  transcript  of  the  heart;  if 
not,  shame  to  the  spirit  that  dictates,  and  the  hand  that  writes. 


No.  VII. 

ANOTHER   LETTER   FROM   THE    BANKS    OF   THE    TENNESSEE. 

THE  silver  crescent  of  the  honey-moon  has  waxed  into  the 
full-orbed  mellow  lustre  of  wedded  tenderness.  Our  sweet 
enthusiast  has  tasted  a  mingled  cup  since  last  we  met  her  by 
the  Magnolia's  blossoms.  She  has  felt  the  joy  and  sorrow  of 
a  mother's  heart.  She  has  been  supremely  blest  and  severely 
smitten,  and  she  has  known  the 

"  Soothing  thoughts  which  spring 
From  the  depths  of  human  suffering. " 

Her  feet  no  longer  turn,  at  the  sunset  hour,  towards  the 
Indian  mound.  There  is  a  smaller,  newer  mound,  covered 
with  fresh,  green  turf,  to  which  her  footsteps  bend.  There 
she  carries  her  offerings  of  flowers,  gemmed  with  other  dew 
than  the  tears  of  night.  There  she  sits,  beneath  the  mulber- 
ry's shade,  by  the  side  of  her  husband,  holding  sweet  com- 
munion with  the  spirit  of  her  infant,  in  the  hush  of  the  balmy 
twilight. 

"  One  month  ago,"  she  writes,  "  I  felt  as  if  my  hand  were 
paralyzed  and  my  heart  turned  to  stone.  I  would  willingly 
have  lain  down  in  the  cold  ground  by  my  baby's  side  and  died, 
had  it  pleased  God  to  seal  my  eyelids  with  the  last  great  sleep. 
But  now,  if  not  glad,  I  am  happy;  if  not  joyous,  I  am  re- 
signed. I  will  go  back  and  tell  you  my  life's  experience  since 
last  I  wrote.  It  is  what  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of 
my  sex  have  experienced  before,  and  yet  it  seems  as  if  there 
was  no  joy  like  unto  my  joy;  no  sorrow,  like  unto  my  sorrow; 
no  submission  like  what  I  now  feel.  Strange  !  we  are  less,  far 
less  in  the  great  mass  of  human  life,  than  the  fallen  leaf  of 
the  forest,  or  the  sand  grain  of  the  sea-shore ;  and  yet,  we  are 
such  vast  worlds  to  ourselves — all  infinitude  sinks  into  insig- 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  225 

nificance  in  comparison  to  ourselves.  Am  I  more  selfish  than 
others  ?  Tell  me,  for  I  shudder  to  think  how  the  whole  uni- 
verse was  darkened  by  the  veil  that  was  drawn  over  my  single, 
sorrowing  heart. 

"  About  a  year  ago,  God  placed  a  little  blue-eyed  cherub  in 
my  arms,  and  baptized  me  by  the  sacred  name  of  mother.  I 
felt  the  consecration  in  my  inmost  soul,  and  made  a  vow  unto 
the  Lord,  to  dedicate  myself  anew  to  his  service,  that  I  might 
offer  my  child  with  unpolluted  hands — the  firstling  of  the  flock 
— a  lamb  without  spot  or  blemish,  on  his  holy  altar.  What 
capacities  of  happiness  and  usefulness  were  born  within  me  ! 
How  enlarged  seemed  my  sphere  of  action !  How  sublime 
the  career  opening  to  my  view  ! 

"  l  What  a  consequential  little  body  you  have  become  !'  said 
my  husband,  smilingly,  after  listening  patiently  to  a  long  ora- 
tion of  mine,  on  a  mother's  duties  and  cares.  '  But  alas  !  for 
poor  me — I  see  I  am  dwindling  away  into  a  nonentity.  If  ] 
have  any  positive  existence,  it  is  only  as  the  father  of  this 
child.' 

" '  Ingrate !'  I  exclaimed,  while  my  spirit  literally  basked 
in  the  tender  light  of  those  dark,  brilliant  eyes.  '  Have  you  not 
told  me  a  hundred  times,  that  my  only  fault  was  loving  you  too 
well  ?  that  you  were  obliged  to  repress  your  own  love,  to  check 
the  idolatry  of  mine  ?  If  I  adore  this  child,  it  is  because  it 
is  yours — a  heavenly  link,  drawing  me  closer,  nearer  to  your 
heart.' 

"  But  why  weary  you  with  a  description  of  scenes  which 
may  seem  very  foolish  to  all  save  ourselves  ?  For  six  months, 
I  was  the  happiest  of  human  beings.  I  cannot  give  you  the 
faintest  idea  of  the  exceeding  beauty  of  our  little  darling.  So 
exquisitely  fair,  such  dove-like  eyes,  shaded  by  such  long  lashes, 
and  such  a  sweet,  rose-bud  mouth.  Every  day  she  grew  more 
lovely,  every  hour  I  loved  her  more.  Yet  I  trembled  all  the 
time  in  the  midst  of  my  new-born  happiness.  There  was 
something  about  her  so  different  from  other  children, — so 
gentle,  so  quiet,  and  dream-like, — she  would  look  up  in  my 
face  so  wistfully,  and  with  such  startling  intelligence, — the 
tears  would  spring  into  my  eyes  as  I  would  press  her  closer  to 
»iy  heart,  that  ached  with  its  excess  of  tenderness.  Something 
whispered,  '  She  is  only  lent  thee,  for  a  little  while.  Think 
her  not  thine  own.  Be  ready  to  resign,  her,  when  He  who 
gave  her,  calls  her  back  to  himself.' 


226  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  when  I  noticed  the  first  symptoms  of 
disease — it  came  on  so  gradually,  so  insidiously — giving  a 
touching  languor  to  the  blue  eye,  a  waxen  whiteness  to  the 
delicate  skin,  and  a  sinking  and  relaxation  to  the  late  bounding 
limbs.  At  first,  she  only  languished  and  faded  like  a  vernal 
flower — beautiful,  oh  !  so  beautiful  still !  but  then  came  emacia- 
tion and  suffering — suffering,  that  agonized  me  to  behold. 
Never,  till  this  moment,  had  I  realized  the  awful  nature  of  sin, 
for  it  was  for  sin,  that  my  innocent  babe  was  thus  doomed  to 
suffer.  I  pray  God  to  forgive  me  the  impious  thoughts  that 
struggled  for  the  mastery  in  my  bosom.  I  dared  to  question 
His  justice  as  well  as  His  mercy.  I  said  it  was  right  that  I 
should  suffer,  for  I  had  sinned,  but  '  What/  I  exclaimed,  lift- 
ing up  my  streaming  eyes  and  deprecating  hands  to  Heaven, 
'  what  has  this  sinless  being  done,  that  thou  shouldst  thus 
heavily  lay  thy  chastening  hand  on  her  ?  on  me,  on  me,  let  the 
burden  fall.' 

"  How  exquisitely  she  suffered,  you  may  know,  since  I  tell 
you  I  prayed  that  she  might  die — that  she  might  only  be  at 
rest.  When  they  told  me  that  she  was  dead,  I  would  not  have 
called  her  back  for  the  universe — the  world  seemed  a  wide 
graveyard  to  me ;  but  I  rejoiced  that  the  feet  of  my  little  one 
were  not  doomed  to  walk  among  the  gloomy  memorials  of 
buried  hearts.  She  was  happy,  though  I  was  for  ever  wretched. 
So  I  then  felt,  but  now  I  can  bless  God  not  only  for  the  gift, 
but  the  withdrawal.  I  needed  the  chastisement — I  deserved 
the  stroke.  From  the  moment  when  I  saw  her  in  her  white 
muslin  shroud,  with  white  rose-buds  and  geranium  leaves 
scattered  among  its  transparent  folds,  and  saw  the  mysterious, 
solemn  signs  of  death  upon  her  face,  the  smile  of  more  than 
earthly  placidity  and  peace  upon  her  cherub  lips,  I  felt  as  sure 
that  she  was  gone  to  Heaven,  as  though  I  saw  its  golden  por- 
tals opened  and  her  admitted  into  its  celestial  mansions.  I 
know  that  she  is  in  the  bosom  of  her  Saviour  and  her  God, 
and  I  can  rejoice  that  I  was  permitted  to  give  another  cherub, 
to  swell  the  orchestra  of  Heaven.  Death  is  now  divested  of 
all  its  terror.  I  love  to  meditate  upon  it.  I  love  to  visit  the 
grave  of  my  darling,  and  there  I  realize  the  truth  of  that 
beautiful  saying,  '  that  the  graves  of  infants  are  the  footprints 
of  angels.'  Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Hemans's  sweet  lines  on 
the  death  of  an  infant  ?  Some  of  them  steal  over  me  as  I 
write. 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  227 

'  Thy  grave  shall  be  a  blessed  shrine, 
Adorned  with  nature's  brightest  wreath  ; 
Each  glowing  season  shall  combine 
Its  incense  there  to  breathe. 
And  oft  upon  the  midnight  air, 
Shall  viewless  harps  be  murmuring  there ; 
And  oh!  sometimes  in  visions  blest, 
Sweet  spirit !  visit  our  repose. 
And  bear  from  thine  own  world  of  rest 
Some  balm  for  human  woes. 
What  form  more  lovely  could  be  given 
Than  thine,  to  messenger  of  Heaven 9> 

"  Oh  !  what  a  friend,  what  a  comforter  do  I  possess  in  my 
husband  !  Never  till  now,  did  I  know  the  full  measure  of 
his  immeasurable  worth,  if  I  may  thus  speak.  While  he  ia 
spared,  I  must  be  happy.  Even  in  the  hour  of  deepest  agony, 
I  felt  grateful  to  heaven  that  I  had  his  heart  to  lean  upon, 
his  arm  to  enfold  me.  Great  is  the  mystery  of  love.  It  is 
the  halcyon  of  the  tempests  of  life,  and  yet,  the  power  that 
lashes  its  billows  into  the  wildest  commotion." 

After  an  interval  of  a  year,  she  again  takes  up  the  pen,  and 
see  how  lightly,  how  playfully  it  moves  ! 

"  Friend  of  my  heart,  I  greet  thee.  Flower  that  I  have 
planted  in  the  garden  of  my  affections,  I  have  not  suffered 
one  petal  to  fade,  one  hue  to  grow  dim  through  neglect. 
You  do  not  know  what  an  admirable  housekeeper  I  am  be- 
coming to  be.  Behold  a  sketch  illustrative  of  my  new  accom- 
plishments : 

"The  other  evening  I  was  thrown  entirely  on  my  own 
resources,  for  my  servants  were  all  sick,  and  cook  and  waiter 
I  had  none  to  assist  me.  The  supper  hour  drew  nigh,  and 
I  knew  there  was  neither  bread  nor  cake  in  the  pantry. 
There  was  plenty  of  flour  and  butter,  eggs  and  lard,  and  I 
resolved  '  to  screw  my  courage  to  the  sticking  place/  and 
plunge  at  once  into  the  mysteries  of  kneading,  rolling,  and 
baking.  I  determined  to  immortalize  myself,  and  make  a 
repast  for  my  husband,  such  as  his  imagination  had  never 
even  conceived.  I  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  after  obtaining 
some  minute  directions  from  the  sick  cook,  I  took  possession 
of  a  large  wooden  tray,  into  which  I  sifted  the  flour,  giving 
myself  a  fine  powdering  during  the  process.  Just  as  I  had 
rolled  up  my  sleeves  above  my  elbows,  and  pinned  up  the 
skirt  of  my  silk  dress  behind,  to  keep  it  out  of  the  way  of 
the  pots  and  kettles,  I  saw  three  or  four  elegantly  dressed 


228  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

ladies  sweeping  up  the  front  steps,  one  of  whom  I  knew  must 
be  the  fashionable  stranger,  of  whom  I  had  heard  very  much 
said.  Oh  dear  !  what  was  I  to  do  ?  The  spider  was  heating 
over  the  fire,  the  dough  was  sticking  to  my  unpractised  hands, 
the  flour  was  adhering  to  the  flounces  of  my  dress,  which  I 
had  too  late  thought  of  tucking  up.  But  as  there  was  no  one 
else  to  play  the  lady,  I  drew  my  hands  out  of  the  tray,  washed 
them  till  they  looked  as  red  as  lobsters,  smoothed  my  rumpled 
flounces,  but  as  there  was  no  looking-glass  in  the  kitchen,  I 
was  not  aware  that  my  dark  hair  was  powdered  in  the  fashion 
of  the  last  century,  giving  me  quite  a  Lady  Washington  sem- 
blance. I  observed  that  the  ladies  looked  very  frequently  at 
my  head,  but  alas  for  human  vanity  !  I  thought  they  were 
admiring  the  glossiness  and  tasteful  arrangement  of  my  hair. 
The  moment  my  guests  departed,  I  flew  into  the  kitchen  and 
eagerly  spatting  out  my  dough,  put  it  at  once  into  the  spider, 
without  thinking  how  immensely  hot  it  must  be,  remaining  so 
long  over  the  burning  coals.  I  had  made  the  paste  so  short 
with  butter,  I  could  not  turn  it,  so  I  placed  the  utensil  in  a 
perpendicular  position,  by  putting  a  smoothing  iron  behind 
it,  and  soon  saw,  with  rapture,  its  surface  become  a  glowing 
brown.  It  was  in  vain,  however,  that  I  tried  to  take  out  the 
cake,  when  I  supposed  it  sufficiently  baked.  It  would  stick, 
and  I  was  obliged  to  rend  it  from  the  spider,  leaving  a  goodly 
portion  behind.  I  was  just  ready  to  burst  into  tears  of  vexa- 
tion, when  my  husband,  not  finding  me  in  the  parlour,  sought 
me  in  my  new  province,  and  patting  me  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder,  praised  me  into  perfect  good  humour.  He  even 
passed  many  eulogiums  on  my  short  cake,  which  proved  very 
long,  as  no  one  could  eat  more  than  a  mouthful,  telling  me  he 
intended  sending  a  receipt  to  Miss  Leslie,  to  insert  in  her 
Cookery  Book.  I  laughed  as  heartily  as  he  did  over  my 
failure,  and  when  he  began  to  sing,  in  his  own  sweet,  winning 
voice,  '  Hop  light,  your  cake's  all  dough/  I  joined  merrily  in 
the  song. 

"  Since  then  I  have  been  taking  daily  lessons  in  cookery, 
and  am  really  becoming  an  adept  in  the  art.  I  have  a  linen 
apron,  with  long  sleeves,  which  my  husband  declares  is  the 
most  becoming  thing  I  ever  donned.  I  can  make  light  rolls 
that/oam,  and  batter  cakes  that  melt.  I  wish  I  could  enclose 
some  specimens  in  my  letter,  lest  you  should  think  me  guilty 
of  vain  boasting.  Perhaps  you  may  think  I  am  degenerating 
iuto  a  mere  household  drudge.  No,  indeed,  I  never  enjoyed 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  229 

reading  and  music  so  much  in  my  life.  An  hour  or  two  in 
the  morning  devoted  to  active  duties,  gives  a  glow  to  the 
spirits  that  does  not  fade  away  the  livelong  day.  The  con- 
sciousness that  if  the  hour  of  emergency  again  arrives,  I  shall 
not  be  obliged  to  give  my  dear,  kind,  uncomplaining  husband, 
such  a  horrible  dough-cake  as  I  once  placed  before  him,  exalts 
me  in  my  own  estimation.  I  feel  that  I  have  buckled  on  my 
armour,  and  am  ready  for  the  conflict  of  circumstances,  how- 
ever hostile  they  may  be. 

"Think  not  because  I  thus  lightly  skim  over  the  paper, 
that  I  have  forgotten  the  past  and  its  solemn  teachings. 
There  is  not  a  day — scarcely  an  hour — that  the  memory  of 
my  angel  child  does  not  come  to  me,  imparting  a  glory  to  my 
thoughts  and  lifting  them  up  to  heaven,  her  dwelling-place. 
Sorrow  never  leaves  us  as  it  found  us.  It  either  indurates  or 
softens  the  heart;  either  crushes  it  to  the  dust,  or  exalts  it  to 
the  skies.  I  trust  its  influence  on  mine,  has  been  salutary  and 
ennobling." 

Yes,  it  has  been  ennobling.  The  light-hearted,  loving  girl, 
is  now  the  thoughtful,  Christian  woman.  Tupper,  in  his  great 
thought-book,  Proverbial  Philosophy,  says,  "  that  it  is  impos- 
sible for  one  to  be  both  glad  and  good."  This  is  a  wide, 
sweeping  assertion,  but  there  is  much  truth  in  it.  Pearls  are 
found  under  the  waves,  gold  in  the  dark  mine,  and  diamonds 
in  the  burying  sand.  The  treasures  of  earth  lie  not  on  the 
surface.  The  soul  that  travaileth  in  tribulation  and  sorrow, 
finds  these  hidden,  buried  gems,  reserved  for  the  co-labourer 
with  God,  in  the  sublime  work  for  which  we  were  created. 

But  it  is  growing  late.  The  brief  but  beautiful  twilight 
of  Southern  climes  is  deepening  into  night-shades.  Let  us  tie 
up  the  packet  and  close  the  trunk.  A  delicious  breeze  is 
fanning  the  Magnolia's  boughs  and  shaking  out  fragrance 
from  its  dewy  blossoms ;  one  has  fallen,  and  the  gale  is  bear- 
ing it  on  its  wings — a  missionary  of  the  heart — to  the  place 
where  it  is  destined  to  rest. 
QUINCT,  June  27. 


No.  VIII. 

IN  opening  the  leaves  of  an  album,  a  beautiful  picture  meets 
the  eye — coloured  with  the  warm  hues  of  nature — and,  on  the 


230  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

following  pages,  there  is  a  poem  descriptive  of  that  charming 
spot.  Ten  thousand  recollections  come  gushing  up  as  from  a 
living  fountain,  at  the  sight  of  this  fair  image.  There  it  is — 
that  modest,  yet  elegant  mansion — situated  on  the  brow  of  a 
swelling  hill,  like  a  pearly  gem  on  a  monarch's  forehead. 
With  its  walls  and  pillars  of  snowy  white — its  spreading  wings 
and  ample  yard — surrounded  by  a  white  railing — its  luxuriant 
shade  trees  and  handsome  out-buildings — it  looks  down  on  the 
harbour  of  Boston,  and  witnesses  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of  the 
tide — the  coming  and  going  of  the  white-winged  eagles  of  the 
ocean — and  all  the  changes  and  wonders  of  the  deep  blue  sea. 
Crowning  that  long  flight  of  steps,  and  at  the  base  of  those 
white  columns,  are  vases  of  blossoming  plants,  resembling' 
Corinthian  ornaments  to  the  Doric  pillars.  Those  two  tall 
trees  directly  in  front  of  the  building,  with  the  branches  sweep- 
ing upward,  are  larches,  and  by  their  side  stands  the  graceful 
sycamore.  The  gate  is  open,  as  if  some  guest  had  just 
arrived.  One  can  almost  hear  the  rolling  of  the  carriage 
wheels  over  the  circular  gravel  walk — the  letting  down  of  the 
steps — the  glad  sounds  of  greeting — for  that  is  the  palace  of 
hospitality,  and  every  day  is  a  gala-day  of  life. 

When  we  first  entered  that  mansion,  there  was  a  figure 
standing  by  one  of  those  columns,  which  made  an  ineffaceable 
impression ;  there  was  something  so  remarkable  in  its  whole 
appearance.  It  was  a  gentleman,  dressed  in  black,  who  would 
have  seemed  in  the  meridian  of  life,  were  it  not  that  his  hair 
was  as  white  as  flakes  of  new-fallen  snow.  It  was  not  thin  and 
weak  like  the  hair  of  age,  but  thick,  waving,  and  silky  as  the 
locks  of  youth.  It  looked  like  snow,  fallen,  by  chance,  on  a 
green  hill,  for  his  form  was  erect  and  his  complexion  wore  a 
ruddy  glow.  A  benignant  smile  of  welcome  lighted  up  his 
face,  made  so  beautiful  by  that  rich  silvery  crown !  We  never 
remember  experiencing  a  more  sudden  and  intense  feeling  of 
admiration,  for,  from  our  earliest  childhood,  we  have  paid 
homage  to  the  hoary  honours  of  age,  and  considered  them  in- 
deed a  crown  of  glory,  when  found  in  the  way  of  righteousness. 
But  here  was  the  beauty  of  age  and  manhood  combined — the 
softness  of  one  and  the  strength  of  the  other.  -  We  have  seen 
magnificent  hair  of  every  gradation  of  colour,  from  the  purplish 
0"  raven  black,  the  deep  auburn  and  golden  brown,  to  the 
pale,  lint-white  tresses,  but  never  have  we  beheld  anything  so 
exquisitely  beautiful  as  these  locks  of  living  snow.  As  we 


MAGNOLIA    LEAVES.  231 

gaze  upon  the  picture  open  before  us,  we  imagine  we  see  them 
softly  waving  in  the  seaborn  breeze  that  comes  flowing  towards 
them;  we  can  see  the  smile  of  radiant  kindness  that  greets 
the  coming  guest.  There  arei  other  figures,  too,  walking  on 
that  pillared  piaeza — happy,  joyous  ones — and  some  that 
never  could  be  forgotten.  Seated  at  the  open  window  of  the 
saloon,  and  leaning  against  a  statue  of  Pallas,  which  is  placed 
in  the  corner,  there  is  the  loveliest  young  female  we  ever  saw 
It  is  a  face  such  as  is  very  seldom  seen,  save  in  the  dreams  of 
imagination — so  fair,  so  bright,  so  soft,  so  languishingly  beau- 
tiful. The  Parian  marble  against  which  she  leans  is  scarcely 
whiter  or  smoother  than  her  brow ;  nor  are  the  features  of  the 
Goddess  more  symmetrical  or  expressive  than  her  own.  She 
has  one  of  those  winning,  heart-attracting  faces,  which  inspire 
love  at  first  sight,  and  it  is  indicative  of  all  those  qualities 
which  retain  it  while  existence  lasts.  That  face  had  a  history, 
but  it  may  not  be  given  here. 

It  might  have  been  that  disappointment  had  cast  a  blight 
upon  the  rose  of  her  youth,  or,  perchance,  a  constitutional 
delicacy  and  fragility,  that  soon  wilted  this  beautiful  flower. 
Perhaps  such  angelic  beauty  must  be  doomed  to  an  early  decay, 
for  there  was  something  in  the  languishing  lustre  of  her  eyes 
that  belonged  not  to  this  world.  All  that  love  or  affection 
could  do  was  done  to  rekindle  the  fading  beams  of  life — but  in 
vain.  They  bore  her  where  healing  waters  flow  : 

"She  bowed  to  taste  the  wave,  and  died." 

And  yet  there  she  is  seated,  seen  by  the  spirit's  eye,  leaning 
against  the  statue  of  Pallas,  smiling  with  such  bewitching 
sweetness,  that  one  is  involuntarily  drawn  towards  her,  nearer, 
and  still  more  near.  Oh  !  how  warm,  and  living,  and  loving, 
she  looks  !  There  is  life  in  the  soft  rose  of  her  cheek ;  life  in 
the  beam  of  her  eye  of  Creolian  darkness ;  life  in  the  beatings 
of  her  gently  heaving  heart.  Can  that  heart  have  ceased  to 
beat?  that  cheek  to  glow?  that  eye  to  kindle  and  to  shine? 
There  were  other  statues  in  that  saloon  besides  the  one  that 
supported  her  graceful  head.  There  was  the  Apollo  Belvidere 
— his  lips  quivering  with  the  divine  indignation  of  a  God — 
and  Diana,  in  all  her  virgin  majesty ;  and  there  were  pictures, 
on  which  the  eye  lingered,  riveted  by  the  magic  spell  of  genius. 
On  one  side  was  a  magnificent  copy  of  Titian's  adoration  of  the 
Magi ;  on  the  other,  a  landscape  of  Claude  Loraine's — so  calm, 


232  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

so  serene,  it  diffuses  a  kind  of  sunset  tranquillity  over  the  soul 
that  gazes  upon  it.  You  can  hardly  turn  the  eye  without  be- 
holding a  picture  or  a  statue — some  embodied  fable — some 
realization  of  the  poet's  dream.  Yet  almost  all  those  paintings 
are  the  work  of  a  daughter  of  the  family,  whose  fine  classic 
.taste,  cultivated  by  European  masters,  has  embellished  her 
paternal  abode. 

The  owner  of  the  mansion  had  passed  nine  years  in  Europe, 
during  the  youth  of  his  children,  where  they  had  every  oppor- 
tunity of  improvement  in  mind  and  manners  which  wealth  could 
furnish.  The  court  dresses,  which  were  preserved  as  memen- 
toes of  this  period,  were  magnificent,  and  in  looking  at  the 
gorgeous  folds  of  silk  velvet,  fringed  with  gold  and  bordered 
with  ermine,  one  might  forget  for  a  moment  their  republican 
simplicity.  Often,  in  an  evening  frolic,  were  those  costly 
robes  assumed,  and  the  drawing-room  converted  into  a  mimic 
palace.  Once,  the  handsome  white-locked  gentleman,  on  the 
occasion  of  a  village  ball,  was  persuaded  to  wear  a  court-dress 
of  black  silk  velvet  by  a  trio  of  gay  young  girls,  who  considered 
him  their  beau-ideal  of  perfection. 

"  You  have  made  a  fool  of  me,"  he  said,  laughingly  j  "  but 
if  I  impart  pleasure  to  you,  I  am  satisfied — I  am  willing  to  be 
laughed  at." 

Laughed  at !  Who  ever  thought  of  associating  the  idea  of 
ridicule  with  one,  whose  perfect  simplicity  and  benignity  of 
manners  entirely  eclipsed  the  splendour  of  his  dress  ?  for  it 
did  look  splendid,  with  its  crown  of  spotless  ermine  !  He  was 
the  most  unostentatious  of  human  beings,  and  every  one  knew 
that  it  was  to  give  innocent  gratification  to  others,  not  to  ag- 
grandize himself,  that  he  departed  from  his  usual  republican 
habits.  He  had  the  purest  tastes  in  the  world.  He  was 
remarkably  fond  of  flowers — which  grew  in  richest  profu- 
sion in  his  garden — and  he  made  a  rule  that  all  the  young 
girls  that  were  guests  of  the  household  (and  there  was  usually 
a  band  of  them)  should  wear  a  garland  of  flowers  upon  their 
heads  before  appearing  at  the  dinner  table.  He  would  often 
come  and  sit  beside  them  and  assist  them  in  weaving  their 
fragrant  wreaths,  and  they  would  almost  quarrel  for  the  privi- 
lege of  twisting  one  of  these  floral  crowns  on  the  snow-flakes 
of  his  brow. 

There  was  a  rustic  seat  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  under  a 
noble  chestnut  tree,  where  these  chaplets  were  twined,  and  that 
tree  was  a  cynosure,  which  attracted  all  that  was  lovely  and 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  233 

bright  around  it.  Many  a  gallant  knight  would  recline  on  the 
soft  grass,  or  tread  the  green  sward,  throwing  the  charm  of 
chivalry  over  the  rural  scene. 

Oh  !  that  garden !  What)  clusters  of  roses — what  wealth 
of  fruit  adorned  and  enriched  it !  On  one  side  was  a  circular 
brick  wall,  facing  the  south,  against  which  peach  and  pear 
trees  were  trained  to  clamber  like  vines,  producing  the  richest 
and  most  delicious  fruit.  Such  beds  of  strawberries — such 
hedges  of  raspberries — and  such  arbours  of  grape  vines,  wore 
enough  to  tempt  the  taste  of  an  anchorite.  And  yet,  lovely 
as  the  scenery  was  in  the  back-ground,  it  was  still  lovelier  iu 
the  front  of  the  dwelling-house,  for  the  sea  was  there ;  the 
gray,  the  grand  old  sea,  which,  whether  sparkling  in  sunlight 
or  silvering  in  moonlight,  reposing  in  tranquillity  or  lashed 
into  billows,  was  still  the  most  magnificent  image  of  the 
Creator's  infinitude.  There  was  Fort  Independence,  with  its 
star-spangled  banner  and  revolving  light-house,  and,  beyond, 
the  rocky  promontory  of  Nahant,  against  whose  rugged  coast 
the  waves  dash  themselves  into  foam. 

Oh  !  thou  beautiful  picture  !  thou  fair  leaf  from  the  Mag- 
nolia tree  of  memory,  unfolded  by  the  hand  of  accident !  how 
many  excursive  thoughts  have  received  an  irresistible  mo- 
mentum from  thee  ?  Our  eyes  glance  upon  the  poem,  and  we 
are  tempted  to  transcribe  it  as  explanatory  of  the  painted 
sketch.  It  was  intended  only  for  the  glance  of  friendship ; 
but  were  it  more  studied,  it  might  have  less  heart  in  it,  and 
we  will  attempt  no  corrections.  As  travellers  often  paused  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  arrested  by  the  beauty  of  the  prospect 
swelling  on  the  view,  the  poet  has  endeavoured  to  describe  the 
impressions  of  the  stranger,  and  imagines  the  enthusiastic  ad- 
miration that  must  fill  his  bosom. 


CLIFTON  HILL. 

'Twas  summer,  and  the  western  skies 
Were  gilt  with  sunset's  gorgeous  dyes, 
While  every  beam  of  glory  given 
To  gild  the  sultry  brow  of  Heaven, 
Reflected  in  the  waves  below, 
Lent  back  a  broader,  deeper  glow. 
The  traveller  checked  his  onward  way, 
Amid  the  pomp  of  closing  day — • 
The  voice  of  Nature  filled  the  air, 
And  bade  him  pause  and  worship  there. 
132 


234  MAGNOLIA   LEAVES. 

Before  him  the  calm  ocean  rolled, 
Now  fringed  with  broad  resplendent  gold, 
Where  many  an  eagle  of  the  sea 
Spread  its  proud  wings  triumphantly, 
And  seemed  to  dash  with  conscious  pride 
The  glittering  foam  from  either  side. 
Almost  beneath  his  eye,  amid 
Wild  rocks  and  clustering  foliage  hid, 
A  village  rose,  with  modest  charms, 
Enclosed  in  Nature's  guardian  arms. 
Beyond,  he  saw  the  azure  shade 
Of  hills,  in  robes  of  mist  arrayed, 
On  whose  dim  blue  the  sunset  beam 
Had  cast  a  rich  empurpled  gleam. 

The  stranger  long  admiring  stood, 
Gazing  on  mountain,  sea,  and  wood — 
On  flowery  field  and  sparkling  rill, 
And  moss-crowned  rock,  till  rapture's  thrill 
Confessed  the  charms  of  CLIFTOX  HILL — 
Where  all  that's  fair  and  wild  and  sweet, 
In  one  harmonious  union  meet. 

Stranger !  behold  that  roof  appearing 
Through  trees — their  lofty  branches  rearing, 
AB  if  to  brave  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Or  dare  the  lightning  in  its  path — 
No  gaudy  pomp  the  eye  repelling, 
Is  lavished  on  that  lovely  dwelling — 
But  classic  elegance  and  taste 
Have  every  fair  proportion  graced. 
Those  pure  white  columns  meet  the  eye, 
In  Doric,  chaste  simplicity, 
Around  whose  base,  the  fragrant  vine 
Frolics  with  many  a  graceful  twine. 
But  look  within.     There  art  displays 
Its  fairest  works  to  tempt  thy  praise — 
The  forms  of  ancient  Gods  behold 
Imaged  in  each  majestic  mould — 
The  pale  translucent  marble  lives, 
And  life  to  vanished  glory  gives. 
Those  breathing  walls,  where  beauty  beams, 
Bright  as  in  Fancy's  brightest  dreams ; 
Those  walls  no  foreign  hand  adorned, 
Its  aid  creative  genius  scorned. 
A  female  artist,  whose  fair  fame 
Has  thrown  a  halo  round  her  name, 
Has  left  her  pencil's  magic  trace, 
Her  home,  her  parent's  halls  to  grace. 

But  linger  not,  for  fading  light 
Will  melt  ere  long  in  shades  of  night ; 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  235 

And  still,  while  day's  last  splendours  burn, 

Once  more  to  Nature's  beauties  turn ; 

She  calls  thee  to  her  bowers  of  balm, 

More  passing  sweet  in  twilight's  calm  ; 

She  calls  thee,  where  her  roses  bloom, 

Breathing  their  soft,  divine  perfume, 

Twining  their  green  and  flowering  stalks 

Round  yonder  garden's  ample  walks. 

She  calls  thee  where  her  fruitage  glows, 

Hanging  upon  the  weary  boughs — 

She  calls  thee  to  yon  shaded  seat, 

Young  love's  and  friendship's  sweet  retreat. 

But  vain  the  eloquence  of  song, 

To  paint  these  scenes  beloved  so  long. 

I've  sat  within  those  sheltered  bowers, 

I've  woven  in  wreaths  those  blooming  flowers ; 

I've  stood  for  hours,  as  if  my  soul 

The  eternal  ocean  could  control, 

And,  lost  in  awe,  beheld  the  surge 

Onward  its  restless  waters  urge. 

But  recollections  dearer  still 

Than  nature  gives  my  bosom  fill ; 

Here,  oft  my  heart  has  found  its  home, 

Nor  felt  one  vagrant  wish  to  roam ; 

For  kind  affection  ever  pressed 

Its  welcome  on  the  grateful  guest — 

The  hours  in  social  pleasures  past, 

While  each  seemed  happier  than  the  last. 

Here  have  I  seen,  in  union  sweet, 

The  charms  of  youth  and  manhood  meet ; 

The  smile  of  mirth  and  gladness  move 

O'er  features  I  revere  and  love, 

And  rays  of  feeling  warmly  glow 

On  temples  crowned  with  living  snow  ! 

How  sweet,  when  moonlight  had  unfurled 
Its  silver  banner  o'er  the  world, 
To  sit,  all  bathed  in  heavenly  beams, 
And  watch  the  beacon's  fitful  gleams  I 
But  sweeter  still  when  music's  power 
Gave  holier  charms  to  evening's  hour. 
The  notes  themselves  were  sweet  to  hear, 
And  might  enchant  a  stranger's  ear, 
But  'twas  &  friend,  whose  minstrel  art, 
Woke  the  deep  echoes  of  the  heart, 
And  every  warbling  measure  stole 
More  sweetly  in  the  listening  soul. 

Fair  Clifton  Hill!  the  rays  that  sweep 
In  trembling  brightness  o'er  the  deep, 
Are  lovely — but  o'er  thee,  the  star 
Of  memory  rises  lovelier  far. 


236  MAGNOLIA   LEAVES. 

Strains  of  harmonious  music  stealing 
Along  the  viewless  chords  of  feeling, 
Thrill  on  the  ear ;  but  vanished  joys 
Speak  to  the  heart  with  sweeter  voice. 
If,  when  released  from  bonds  of  clay, 
This  ardent  spirit  soars  away, 
'Tis  e'er  permitted  to  explore 
This  earth,  its  dwelling-place  no  more ; 
And  round  some  favourite  spot  to  hover 
That  fond  remembrance  may  discover, 
Its  airy  wings  shall  linger  still 
Around  thy  brow,  fair  Clifton  Hill ! 

If  all  I  loved  shall  then  have  passed, 
Like  leaves  driven  down  by  Autumn's  blast, 
And  time's  oblivious  torrent  dashed 
O'er  scenes  where  joy's  bright  sunbeams  flashed ; 
Yet  pensive  echo,  lingering  still, 
Shall  softly  whisper,  "  Clifton  Hill." 

The  following  lines  bear  a  later  date,  and  are  traced  beneath 
a  weeping  willow,  sketched  on  the  leaf : 

The  gales  of  sorrow,  damp  and  chill, 
Have  swept  o'er  thee,  fair  Clifton  Hill— 
And  in  the  tomb,  now  darkly  low, 
Are  laid  those  locks  of  living  snow. 
Still  fair  the  breast  of  ocean  shines, 
Gilt  by  the  moonbeams'  trembling  lines ; 
Still  Nature,  prodigal  of  bloom, 
Undimmed,  unmarred  by  man's  sad  doom, 
Reigns  in  her  wealth  of  beauty  there ; 
But  he,  in  age  benignly  fair, 
Who  owned  a  father's  love  for  me, 
The  kind,  the  gentle— where  is  he? 
QUINCT,  Aug.  1,  1852. 


No.  IX. 
<f 

IT  is  in  vain  to  speak  of  other  leaves,  under  the  shadow  of 
these  kingly  live-oaks — that  give  an  air  of  grand  solitude  to  the 
place,  for  they  are  so  large,  so  far-spreading,  appear  so  deep- 
rooted,  so  strong  and  enduring,  they  absorb  every  object  around 
them.  We  have  spoken  of  these  trees  before,  but  words 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  237 

are  insufficient  to  describe  the  impressions  they  make  upon 
the  mind.  They  do  not  surprise  one  so  much  by  their  im- 
mense height  as  their  magnificent  breadth — their  amplitude, 
their  glorious  sweep  of  branches.  Mighty  eaglets  of  the  forest, 
they  stretch  out  their  green,  sinewy  wings,  almost  to  the  river's 
edge,  and  wave  their  moss-covered  plumes  in  the  twilight 
breeze.  We  have  a  property  in  those  trees — they  are  a  part 
of  our  inheritance — and  we  would  mourn  for  the  stroke  that 
defaced  or  maimed  them,  as  a  personal  injury  to  ourselves. 
We  feel  enriched  every  time  we  gaze  upon  them,  and  pity  the 
poor  being  who  can  pass  them  without  a  glowing  tribute  of 
praise  and  admiration. 

This  is  a  beautiful  spot,  on  the  banks  of  the  Apalachicola, 
and  beautiful  is  the  shrubbery  that  adorns  it  on  the  opposite 
side.  Last  night,  a  blind  negro  stood  very  near  the  water, 
blowing  through  a  long  tin  horn,  and  making  some  very  me- 
lodious strains.  After  giving  a  long  continuous  blast,  he 
would  pause,  apparently  listening,  when  a  strain,  softer,  fainter, 
sweeter,  came  responsive  from  the  opposite  bank,  and  died 
away  under  the  boughs  of  the  live-oaks.  Again  and  again, 
he  wound  his  shining  horn,  and  again  the  echo  answered  with 
sweeter  and  more  lingering  melody.  We  wondered  what  the 
blind  negro  thought  of  the  voice  that  sung  so  charming  a  se- 
cond to  the  notes  he  played.  He  certainly  never  has  heard 
of  the  maiden,  who  dwells  among  the  rocks  and  the  woods, 
'the  mournful  victim  of  unrequited  love;'  he  knows  nothing 
of  the  science  of  Acoustics — yet  he  evidently  listens  with 
pleasure  to  the  fairy  Bitornella,  and  probably  imagines  him- 
self a  great  musician. 

When  he  quitted  the  bank,  and  all  was  again  still,  we 
turned  to  the  old  oaken  Druids,  clad  in  their  moss-fringed 
robes,  so  gray  and  grand ;  and,  remembering  a  tale  connected 
with  a  tree,  we  will  try  to  impress  it  more  deeply  on  our  own 
memory,  by  relating  it  to  the  ears  of  others.  Though  the 
tree  to  which  we  allude  was  fed  by  the  dews  of  other  climes, 
it  was  associated  with  feelings  which,  like  the  bugle  blast  of 
the  blind  negro,  will  find  a  responsive  echo,  that  will  reach 
the  heart,  however  remote. 

Not  very  far  from  the  city  of  Boston,  there  is  a  country 
village,  which  owed  its  chief  celebrity  to  an  elm  tree  of  stu- 
pendous growth,  situated  just  at  the  foot  of  a  small  hill,  at  the 
entrance  of  the  town.  The  road  passed  through  the  land  of  a 
gentleman,  who  dwelt  on  the  brow  of  that  hill,  and  conse- 


238  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

quently  the  tree  also  was  his  property.  It  had  been  the  pro- 
perty of  several  generations.  Man  had  come  forth  "  like  a 
flower  and  been  cut  down."  Yea,  the  scythe  had  fallen  many 
a  time  on  the  blossoms  of  life,  and  still  that  tree  stood  unfaded 
and  unblenched,  unshorn  of  its  branching  honours  or  its  leafy 
crown.  Of  all  his  possessions,  Mr.  Harrington  most  prized 
this  old,  time-honoured  elm.  It  was  a  history  in  itself — every 
leaf  was  a  page  on  which  some  family  record  was  written. 
He  loved  to  sit  under  its  shade,  and  dwell  in  spirit  with  the 
souls  of  other  generations.  He  was  a  benevolent  man,  and 
wanted  others  to  enjoy,  likewise,  a  shadow  so  liberally  spread. 
He  had  a  circular  bench  constructed  all  round  the  tree  for  the 
benefit  of  the  weary  traveller,  and  the  task-worn  school-child. 
In  the  warm  summer  season,  that  seat  was  seldom  vacant. 
Travellers,  children,  and  labourers  occupied  it  by  day,  and 
lovers  by  the  moonlight  night.  If  that  tree  had  a  tongue,  like 
Tennyson's  talking  oak,  what  wondrous  tales  it  could  have 
told  !  There  would  be  no  need  of  our  pen,  unless  to  record 
the  fate  of  this  noble  patriarch  of  nature. 

Mr.  Harrington  had  one  son  of  the  name  of  William,  who 
actually  grew  up  beneath  its  branches.  He  had  made  himself 
a  studying  place  up  in  one  of  the  forks  of  the  boughs,  where 
he  would  perch  for  hours  and  look  down  on  the  world  below 
and  around — the  world  of  waving  grain,  and  golden  corn,  and 
blossoming  buckwheat.  The  boy  drank  in  inspiration  from 
the  scene,  and  he  felt  the  wings  of  his  spirit  growing  like  the 
bird,  whose  nest  he  had  stolen.  There  he  would  sit,  pelted 
by  the  rain — and  it  was  a  driving  rain  that  reached  him  in 
his  sheltered  nook — beaten  by  the  wind,  and  it  was  a  stormy 
wind  that  penetrated  to  his  guarded  hollow — till  the  poetry  of 
nature  stirred  within  his  bosom.  But  he  never  felt  so  poetical 
or  inspired  as  when  a  little  fairy  figure  of  a  girl  went  tripping 
below,  with  her  satchel  on  her  arm  and  her  sun-bonnet  on  her 
head  (or  rather  on  her  shoulders,  for  she  seldom  suffered  it 
to  cover  her  face),  or  paused  to  rest  awhile  on  the  seat  around 
the  trunk.  Her  name  was  Mary  Granite,  and  her  father  lived 
within  the  neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Harrington.  Mary  was  the 
little  belle  of  the  school-room,  the  juvenile  star  of  the  village, 
as  her  name  carved  on  the  bark  of  trees  and  the  surface  of 
rocks  declared  j  and  William,  though  he  never  carved  her 
name  in  sight,  had  it  written  all  over  his  heart.  She  was 
indeed  one  of  the  loveliest  of  the  lovely  tribe  of  gentle  Marys. 
So  light  and  airy  of  step,  that 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  239 

"The  flower  she  trod  on,  dipped  ana  rose, 
Then  turned  to  look  at  her." 

Yet  so  firm  in  principle  and  so  excellent  in  heart,  that  one 
might  as  well  attempt  to  move  the  elm  tree  from  its  base,  as 
to  divert  her  from  the  path  of  duty.  What  made  her  loveli- 
ness and  excellence  more  conspicuous,  was  the  contrast  be- 
tween herself  and  her  father,  who  was  one  of  the  most  haughty, 
disagreeable,  and  hard-hearted  men,  that  ever  existed.  Gra- 
nite by  name,  and  granite  by  nature,  as  was  often  said  of  him, 
he  seemed  to  glory  in  those  traits  of  character  of  which  most 
men  would  be  ashamed.  He  had  quarrelled  with  almost 
everybody  in  town,  Mr.  Harrington  among  the  number,  be- 
cause he  refused  to  sell  him  the  field  through  which  the  road 


As  there  was  no  intercourse  between  the  families,  William 
never  met  Mary  at  her  father's  house,  but  they  were  always 
meeting  in  their  walks,  perhaps  not  always  accidentally,  till 
their  young  hearts  so  grew  together,  nothing  but  death  could 
separate  them.  It  is  a  well  known  fact,  that  where  there  is  a 
William,  there  must  be  a  Mary  near — the  twin-born  soul  cre- 
ated for  him.  It  is  as  certain  that  our  William  and  Mary  be- 
lieved they  were  created  for  each  other,  and  every  one  else  be- 
lieved so,  but  her  granite-hearted  father,  who,  as  Mary  grew 
into  womanhood,  forbade  her  having  the  slightest  intercourse 
with  the  son  of  his  enemy,  as  he  called  Mr.  Harrington,  be- 
cause he  presumed  to  keep  his  property  in  his  own  hands,  in 
preference  to  selling  it.  Mary  thought  it  her  duty  to  obey 
her  father's  commands,  and  she  no  longer  sat  with  William 
under  the  great  elm  tree,  when  the  moonbeams  beyond  its  cir- 
cumference made  the  shadow  which  embosomed  them  almost 
impervious  to  the  eye,  but  if  she  accidentally  met  him  and  he 
caught  her  trembling  hand  one  moment  in  his,  or  gave  her  a 
glance  of  undying  love,  she  could  not  help  it,  and  it  made  her 
happy  long  days  afterwards. 

At  length  Mr.  Harrington  died,  and  to  the  astonishment 
of  every  one,  left  his  widow  and  only  son  absolutely  poor. 
His  heart  was  too  large  for  his  purse,  and  its  demands  were 
always  encroaching  on  his  prudence.  William  was  left  with 
nothing  but  his  own  energies  to  depend  upon,  and  they  were 
strong  enough  for  an  anchor,  sure  and  steadfast.  His  widowed 
mother  resolved  to  sell  the  house  which  they  occupied,  and  re- 
side in  a  small  cottage,  better  suited  to  the  reduction  of  her 
fortunes.  Mr  Granite  appeared  among  the  purchasers,  and 


240  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

as  his  offers  were  the  most  liberal,  she  did  not  allow  any  past 
animosity  on  his  part  to  interfere  with  the  advantage  of  his 
proposal.  William's  pride  chafed  at  what  might  seem  like 
submission  to  an  enemy,  but  he  was  the  father  of  Mary,  and 
he  caught  a  golden  gleam  of  reconciliation  through  the  open- 
ing door  of  opportunity. 

Having  made  arrangements  for  his  departure  to  another 
State,  where  a  broader  field  of  enterprise  was  spread  out 
before  his  young  ambition,  and  having  resolved  upon  what  he 
considered  the  most  honourable  course  of  action,  he  called  on 
Mr.  Granite,  and  in  the  most  respectful  but  independent 
terms  declared  his  immutable  love  for  Mary,  his  conviction 
that  he  was  worthy  of  her,  and  his  determination  never  to 
resign  the  hope  of  calling  her  his.  Mr.  Granite  listened  with- 
out the  movement  of  a  single  muscle,  or  deigning  the  least 
reply.  When  William,  waxing  into  warmth  and  indignation, 
again  urged  his  suit,  bis  words  were  clipped  in  two  by  this 
sarcastic,  jeering  remark : 

"  When  you  are  a  member  of  Congress,  you  may  marry  my 
daughter,  and  not  till  then." 

"  I  will  be  a  member  of  Congress,  and  then  I  shall  call 
upon  you  to  fulfil  your  promise,"  replied  William,  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  If  she  is  not  a  wife  before  that  time,  her  chances  will  be 
very  poor  afterwards." 

"  I  should  sooner  expect  yon  tree  to  fall  from  its  base,  than 
Mary's  constancy  to  waver,"  exclaimed  William,  pointing  to 
the  elm  tree,  whose  summit  seen  from  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
looked  like  an  amphitheatre  of  verdure. 

A  cold  sneer  passed  over  the  hard  features  of  Mr.  Granite, 
and  withered  away  amid  the  wrinkles.  "  We  shall  see,  we 
shall  see,"  he  muttered;  "  time  will  settle  all  these  things." 

William  turned  away  to  leave  the  apartment,  when  a  sudden 
impulse  drew  him  back.  He  could  not  help  saying  what  he 
did,  though  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat  impeded  his 
utterance. 

"  I  have  one  favour  to  ask,  sir,  before  I  quit  my  native 
village.  That  tree,  sir,  is  a  sacred  thing — I  pray  you  to  guard 
:t  as  such.  Let  it  still  be  the  shelter  of  weariness,  innocence, 
and  age.  Some  one  said  that  you  intended  to  have  the  seat 
removed,  and  a  ban  issued  against  the  public  use  of  its  shade. 
Uut  I  do  not  believe  it !  I  do  not  believe  it  possible  for  you 
or  any  man  to  give  existence  or  utterance  to  such  a  decree." 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  241 

"Why  not?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Granite.  "Is  not  the  tree 
mine  ?  Have  I  not  a  right  to  do  what  I  please  with  it  ?" 

"  No,  sir !  That  tree  was  not  my  father's  nor  mine,  nor  is 
it  yours.  The  mere  accident  of  its  growing  on  that  soil  did 
not,  does  not,  make  it  ours  or  yours.  Heaven  never  designed 
such  wealth  of  shade  for  individual  use.  It  was  placed  at 
the  foot  of  that  hill  that  the  wayfaring  man  might  rest  there- 
under, after  panting  under  the  burden  of  life.  Sir,  my  father 
loved  that  tree,  and  blessed  God  for  creating  it.  I  love  it  j 
every  leaf  is  sacred  to  my  memory,  and  has  a  story  of  its  own 
to  tell.  I  trust  you  will  hold  it  sacred  also,  and  never  allow 
a  sacrilegious  touch  to  deface  its  ancient  majesty." 

"  I  assure  you,  young  man,  I  shall  not  forget  that  tree." 

And  so  they  parted.  He  went  to  mark  out  his  destiny  for 
himself.  Mr.  Granite  remained  at  home,  and,  true  to  his 
words,  did  not  forget  the  tree. 

Two  or  three  years  passed  away,  and  William,  struggling 
upward  all  the  time,  was  fast  pressing  on  to  the  goal  of  fame 
and  fortune.  He  had  two  of  the  most  powerful  motives  in 
the  world  to  urge  him  on — love,  and — what  shall  we  name  it 
— that  other  strong,  unsleeping  principle,  which  wrought  such 
wonders  within  him  ?  If  it  was  revenge,  it  was  of  a  noble 
kind;  the  desire  to  triumph  over  prejudice  and  wrong,  to 
attain  a  social  height  from  which  he  could  look  down  on  his 
enemy  and  force  him  to  capitulation  on  his  own  terms. 

At  length,  after  three  years'  absence,  crowned  with  unpre- 
cedented success,  he  returned  to  his  native  town,  assured  of 
the  constancy  of  Mary  by  the  unwavering  fidelity  of  his  own 
nature. 

His  heart  throbbed  violently  as  he  approached  the  shrine 
of  his  childhood  and  youth,  the  altar  where  the  purest  obla- 
tions of  his  spirit  had  been  offered.  He  looked,  but  he  beheld 
it  not ;  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  thinking  a  sudden  mist  had  ob- 
scured his  vision ;  but  where  that  princely  tree  had  stood, 
making  a  grand  pavilion,  reaching  from  fence  to  fence  on  each 
side  of  the  way,  there  was  nothing  but  a  dreary  blank.  Had 
the  earth  given  way  beneath  his  feet,  he  could  not  have  felt 
more  appalled.  The  sacred  memories  of  years  were  uprooted, 
the  glory  of  the  past  for  ever  defaced. 

Dashing  his  spurs  into  his  weary  horse,  he  galloped  to  the 
spot  and  looked  steadily  on  what  seemed  a  grave,  where  the 
forest  patriarch  once  stood.  It  had  been  cut  down  root  and 
branch — the  chasm  it  had  left  filled  up  with  earth — not  a  leaf 


242  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

remaining  to  tell  of  the  rich  garniture  once  woven  there. 
How  long  he  sat  gazing  on  the  desolation  of  the  scene,  he 
knew  not,  hut  seeing  a  man  walking  by  the  wayside,  he 
accosted  him : 

"  Who  cut  down  this  tree  ?"  asked  he,  in  a  hoarse,  agitated 
voice. 

"Mr.  Granite  had  it  done,  sir,  two  years  ago,"  answered 
the  stranger,  "  and  brought  down  curses  on  his  head,  enough 
to  wither  his  soul  up.  I  wouldn't  be  in  his  place  for  millions." 

"Does  he  still  live  on  the  brow  of  the  hill?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  his  daughter  ?" 

"  She  lives  with  him." 

"  Unmarried  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  And  if  it  were  not  for  that  daughter,  he  would 
have  had  his  house  burned  down  over  his  head,  and  himself 
burned  in  effigy.  But  she  is  such  an  angel  of  goodness,  she 
stands  between  her  father  and  the  curses  of  the  poor  whom  he 
grinds  into  dust." 

William  scarcely  waited  to  hear  the  concluding  words  of 
the  man,  but  shot  up  the  hill  like  an  arrow.  There  was  that 
burning  within  him  which  must  find  vent — a  volcanic  passion, 
in  which  judgment,  and  prudence,  and  self-consideration  were 
all  fused  and  merged  in  the  lava  of  indignation.  Mr.  Granite 
was  seated  in  a  broad  passage  running  through  the  house, 
reading  a  newspaper,  when  a  young  man,  all  on  fire,  suddenly 
stood  before  him.  His  face  was  embrowned  by  the  rays  of  a 
warmer  sun,  and  soiled  by  the  dust  of  travel,  but  he  recognised 
the  noble  brow  and  falcon  glance  of  William  Harrington. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  young  man,  "  you  are  a  murderer,  a  cold- 
blooded, deliberate  murderer.  You  are  worse  than  a  murderer, 
for  man  in  a  moment  of  passion  may  lift  his  hand  against 
his  fellow  man  with  unpremeditated  violence,  and  remorse 
rushes  in  to  weep  out  the  stains  which  crimson  his  conscience. 
But  you,  in  spilling  the  life-blood  of  that  tree,  cut  into  the 
heart  of  the  living,  who  would  have  died  to  defend  it.  It  was 
a  base,  cowardly  act,  for  the  victim  could  not  lift  up  one  of  its 
hundred  arms  to  parry  the  blow.  It  was  a  deed  worthy  of  a 
Nero,  more  wanton  than  the  burning  of  Rome.  It  rose  again 
from  its  ashes,  but  the  pride  of  centuries  is  laid  low,  and  never, 
never  can  be  revived  again." 

By  this  time,  Mr.  Granite  had  recovered  from  the  paralysis 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  243 

of  amazement,  and  his  wrath  burst  forth  in  torrents.  He  used 
language  we  would  blush  to  record. 

"  Yes,"  added  he,  "  I  bought  this  place  merely  that  I  might 
lay  the  axe  to  the  root  of  that  tree,  on  which  your  ancestors 
have  climbed  to  the  height  of  popularity.  I  hated  it  as  if  it 
were  a  living  being,  and  in  every  blow  laid  upon  its  trunk,  I 
shouted  as  if  an  enemy  had  fallen.  Leave  my  house,  young 
man,  and,never  dare  to  set  foot  in  it  again.  Leave  it,  I  say, 
and  if  ever  my  daughter " 

"Oh!  father!"  exclaimed  a  sweet,  entreating  voice,  and  a 
fair,  fairy  form  stood  in  the  door,  with  pale  cheeks  and  tear- 
ful eyes,  repeating  the  simple,  pathetic  adjuration,  "  Oh ! 
father !" 

William  sprang  forward  and  clasped  her  joined  hands  in 
his. 

"  Mary,"  said  he,  "has  he  laid  the  axe  too  to  the  root  of 
your  affection  ?  Has  it  been  destroyed  like  that  noble  tree  ?" 

"  Mary,"  cried  Mr.  Granite,  "  he  has  insulted  me.  He  is 
an  insolent  wretch.  I  forbid  your  speaking  to  him.  I  forbid 
his  ever  darkening  my  door  again.  I  forbid  both,  on  the 
penalty  of  my  everlasting  curse." 

Mary  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  would  have  fallen,  had  not 
William  thrown  one  arm  around  her,  and  pressed  her  to  his 
side. 

"  Let  her  go  !"  cried  the  exasperated  father,  "  let  her  go,  or 
by  Heaven,  1  will  level  you  to  the  ground." 

"  Strike  me  if  you  dare  !"  exclaimed  William,  "yea,  cut  off 
this  right  arm,  if  you  dare,  and  I  will  sustain  her  with  the 
other.  I  am  not  a  passive  tree,  that  you  can  hew  down  with 
impunity." 

By  this  time  the  white  railing  in  front  of  the  house  was 
darkened  by  human  figures  leaning  over  it.  The  man  whom 
William  had  accosted,  followed  him,  and  others  returning 
homeward  from  their  daily  work,  attracted  by  the  indignant 
tones  of  William,  and  the  wrathful  accents  of  Mr.  Granite, 
gathered  round  the  house,  hoping  that  the  day  of  vengeance 
was  come.  They  only  wanted  some  one  to  give  them  a  momen- 
tum, to  roll  upon  him  the  accumulated  burden  of  their  wrongs, 
and  crush  him  beneath  their  weight. 

William,  as  soon  as  he  became  aware  of  their  vicinity,  dread- 
ing some  scene  of  violence,  released  his  arm  from  Mary,  whose 
strength  was  now  partially  restored,  breathed  into  her  ear  a 
few  low,  emphatic  words,  and  left  the  house.  Thank  Heaven ! 


244  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

there  was  one  heart  and  home  open  to  receive  him,  where 
the  storms  of  passion  were  lulled  to  rest,  and  temptations 
entered  not. 

About  a  week  after  this  incident,  Mr.  Granite  left  town  on 
urgent  business,  and  did  not  return  till  a  late  hour.  It  was 
nearly  midnight,  but  as  there  was  a  full  moon,  the  night  was 
like  another  day,  to  the  traveller.  He  rode  leisurely  along,  in 
his  one  horse  carriage,  indulging  in  some  very  comfortable 
naps,  while  rolling  over  the  smooth,  safe  road.  There  was  a 
piece  of  woods,  just  before  the  entrance  into  town,  where  it 
was  always  twilight,  in  sunshine  or  moonlight.  As  he  was 
passing  the  wood,  luxuriating  in  a  light,  downy  slumber,  he 
was  roused  by  a  blast,  as  of  a  thousand  furies ;  sounds  so  fierce 
and  discordant,  rushing  pell-mell  upon  each  other,  were  enough 
to  chase  the  sleep  of  the  dead.  For  a  moment  he  thought  he 
had  awaked  in  a  lower  world,  so  hideous  and  unearthly  was 
the  noise,  when  a  band  of  martial  figures  emerged  from  the 
thicket  and  surrounded  the  carriage,  each  one  bearing  some 
peculiar  and  original  instrument.  Horns,  tin  pans,  drums, 
joints  of  stove-pipes,  wooden  tubes,  all  served  as  vehicles  for 
their  wrathful  spirits.  The  horse,  frightened  by  the  tumult, 
reared  and  plunged ;  but  one,  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader, 
seized  him  by  the  bridle  and  threw  him  back  on  his  hauuches. 

"  Come  on,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  we  are  ready." 

Two  tall  men,  in  masks  like  the  rest,  here  rushed  out  of  the 
woods,  bearing  a  rail  between  them. 

"  We'll  give  you  a  better  carriage  to  ride  on,"  they  cried ; 
"make  haste,  and  we'll-Kelp  you  to  mount." 

Mr.  Granite  saw  himself  at  the  mercy  of  an  exasperated 
mob,  exposed  to  the  most  degrading  insult  that  can  be  inflicted 
on  a  gentleman,  and  he  turned  cold  as  ice.  He  knew  of  no 
means  of  escape,  and  gave  himself  up  to  despair.  He  had  so 
long  exercised  supreme  power  in  the  village,  by  the  despotism 
of  an  iron  will,  that  he  was  terrified  by  this  sudden  and  power- 
ful insurgency,  and  cried  out  in  the  impotence  of  fear  and 
rage. 

"On  with  him,"  cried  the  leader;  "let  him  ride  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  and  the  way  we'll  serenade  him  shall  put 
life  into  his  wooden  horse." 

"  William  Harrington,"  cried  the  wretched  man,  "  I  know 
you;  I  am  in  your  power;  spare  me,  and  my  daughter  is 
jours." 

"  I  am  not  William  Harrington,"  answered  the  man,  in- 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  245 

dignantly :  "  but  I  am  his  friend,  and  the  man  who  insults 
and  wrongs  him,  is  my  enemy,  now  and  for  ever.  Yes !  he 
shall  have  your  daughter,  but  not  until  you  are  humbled  and 
punished  as  you  deserve  to  be.  He  knows  nothing  of  this. 
It  is  for  us  to  avenge  his  wrong  and  ours — and  we  will  do  it." 

Struggling  and  calling  aloud  in  frenzied  accents  for  help, 
the  victim  was  torn  from  the  carriage,  and  another  moment 
would  have  seen  him  elevated  on  the  seat  of  disgrace,  when 
there  was  a  crashing  among  the  branches,  and  a  young  man, 
without  hat  or  coat,  leaped  into  the  road  right  before  them. 

"What  is  all  this?"  he  cried  imperatively.  "What  are 
you  doing,  waking  the  silence  of  midnight  by  such  a  horrible 
tumult  ?" 

"  We  are  going  to  give  old  Granite  a  moonlight  ride — that 
is  all,"  exclaimed  a  rough  voice. 

"  Shame !"  cried  William,  "  to  attack  a  defenceless  man. 
It  is  cowardly — base.  Let  him  go,  my  friends.  Believe  me, 
you  will  all  blush  for  this  by  to-morrow's  sun." 

"  Let  him  swear  to  give  you  Mary,  then,"  said  the  leader, 
who  was  distinguished  by  a  tall  black  plume,  waving  above 
Lis  mask.  "  It  is  for  your  sake  we  have  done  this,  not  our 
own." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  William,  "but  I  desire  no  extorted 
promises.  I  have  his  word  already,  that  as  soon  as  I  am  a 
member  of  Congress  she  shall  be  mine.  Will  you  give  me 
your  votes,  my  friends?" 

Three  hearty,  vociferous  cheers  echoed  through  the  woods, 
and  then  three  times  three. 

"  Will  you  release  this  man,  unconditionally,  for  my  sake  ?" 
he  asked,  with  dignity,  turning  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
masked  figures.  "For  my  father's  sake?"  he  added,  in  a 
softer  tone,  "  for  my  grandfather's  ?  for  the  sake  of  the  old 
elm  tree?" 

"Yes,  we  will,"  they  answered;  "but  unless  he  gives  you 
his  daughter,  he  had  better  never  go  three  yards  from  his  owu 
door  again." 

Thus  saying,  they  blew  another  blast  of  deafening  power, 
and  disappeared  in  the  thicket.  William  was  left  alone  with 
his  enemy,  with  the  moonbeams  playing  brightly  on  his  un- 
covered brow. 

"  Let  me  assist  you  into  your  carriage,  sir,"  said  William, 
with  more  respect  of  manner  than  he  had  ever  assumed  before  t 


246  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

He  pitied  him  for  the  degradation  from  which  he  had  rescued 
him. 

There  is,  in  every  nature,  some  traces  of  the  original  bright- 
ness left.  However  long  it  may  be  darkened  and  obscured, 
it  will  sometimes  break  forth  like  the  sunbeam  at  the  close  of 
a  fierce,  stormy  day.  The  sudden  interposition  of  William  in 
his  behalf,  his  magnanimous  appeal  and  respectful  manner, 
touched  the  one  place  in  his  heart  that  was  capable  of  feeling. 
It  is  true,  he  was  afraid  of  the  mob,  and  must  have  yielded 
through  fear  of  future  outrage ;  but  for  the  first  time  a  glimpse 
of  William's  noble  qualities  beamed  on  his  vision — and  a  con- 
trasted view  of  his  own  meanness  and  vindictiveness  rose  to 
enhance  their  beauty. 

"  Take  my  daughter,  William,"  said  he,  extending  his  hand, 
"  and  let  us  forget  the  past." 

William  and  Mary  were  wedded  and  were  happy,  but  it  was 
not  possible  to  forget  the  past.  It  was  not  possible  to  forget 
the  noble  tree,  associated  with  all  the  sweet  memories  of 
childhood  and  the  springing  aspirations  of  youth.  "  But 
though  cast  down,  it  was  not  destroyed."  It  lived  in  the 
energies  of  William's  noble  heart — lived  in  his  pure  and  holy 
love  of  the  beautiful  and  the  good.  The  thoughts  born  and 
nurtured  within  its  sheltering  boughs  were  immortal,  and  could 
not  die.  They  branched  out,  like  the  ramifications  of  it3 
giant  strength,  and  became  protection  to  the  weak,  and  shelter 
to  the  oppressed.  They  rose  up  to  heaven  like  its  topmost 
leaflets,  and  sunned  themselves  in  a  brighter  sky  and  revelled 
in  a  purer  atmosphere.  No — the  noble  elm  tree  was  not 
destroyed — it  could  not  die,  for  its  vitality  was  infused  into 
another  being,  and  through  that  being,  imparted  to  a  thousand 
others. 

Mr.  Granite  lived  to  see  his  son-in-law  a  member  of  Con- 
gress, and  his  eloquence  the  pride  of  his  native  state.  When 
he  was  elected,  the  citizens  gave  him  a  dinner  in  the  shade 
of  the  thicket  from  which  he  had  rushed  to  the  rescue  of 
Granite,  and  again  three  cheers  rent  the  heavens. 

May  heaven  spare  these  noble  live-oaks  from  the  axe  of  the 
tyrant  and  the  hand  of  the  assassin;  and  may  some  youth, 
with  the  spirit  of  William,  be  nurtured  'neath  their  shades, 
who  shall  make  the  banks  of  the  Apalachicola  immortal  with 
his  renown  ! 

OCIIESSE,  August  10,  1852. 


MAGNOLIA   LEAVES.  247 

No.  X. 
REVERIES   OF   AN    INVALID. 

A  PHILOSOPHER  once  resolved  to  commence  with  the  morn- 
ing's dawn,  and  devote  the  whole  day  to  following  the  move- 
ments of  a  child,  hoping  to  derive  great  assistance  in  the  study  of 
metaphysics  during  the  process.  When  twilight  came  on,  he 
was  perfectly  wearied  and  exhausted,  and  the  only  conclusion 
to  which  he  had  arrived  was,  that  of  all  animals,  man  was  the 
most  restless  and  unreasonable.  He  had  intended  to  take 
notes  of  all  that  occurred,  but  he  found  everything  could  be 
included  in  the  compendious  word,  motion. 

It  is  as  exceedingly  difficult  to  follow  the  movements  of  a 
feverish  imagination,  and  yet  there  is  something  in  the  wild 
aberrations  of  mind,  with  its  reins  momentarily  loosely  floating, 
more  interesting  than  a  sober  and  connected  train  of  reasoning. 
I  will  try  to  describe  some  of  these  vague  and  wandering 
thoughts,  just  as  they  originated,  drifting  me  along  here  and 
there,  without  guide  or  compass,  on  the  pathless  ocean  of  in- 
certitude. 

Have  you  ever  felt  the  throbbings  of  fever  in  your  veins,  in 
your  temples,  your  brain,  till  every  pulsation  resolved  itself 
into  a  prayer  for  coolness  ?  Till  there  was  but  one  vision  of 
beauty  in  the  whole,  wide  universe — and  that  was  ICK  ? 

It  was  in  just  such  a  state  as  this,  the  other  evening,  that 
the  vision  passed  over  me,  or  rather  held  me,  spell-bouud,  in 
its  icy  folds.  Oh  !  it  was  such  a  lovely  moonlight  night !  So 
icy  pure — so  silvery  bright !  The  beams,  as  they  floated  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  looked  like  an  ocean  of  quivering  water, 
and  I  thought  I  was  borne  along  on  the  current,  without  any 
volition  of  my  own,  a  burning  speck,  which  all  that  ocean  flood 
of  brightness  could  not  quench.  The  waves  seemed  warmed 
around  me,  but  far  away,  they  glittered  so  cold,  so  pure, 
so  clear,  if  I  could  only  reach  one  of  those  sparkling  ice 
islands,  I  would  never  more  sigh  for  the  forfeit  bowers  of 
Eden.  Floating  onward  and  ever  onward,  I  could  see  figures, 
shaping  themselves  out  of  the  bright,  frosty  atmosphere,  so 
beautiful  and  tantalizing — so  wooing,  so  mocking  —  now 
beckoning  with  transparent,  glittering  hands  —  now  waving 
back  the  approach  with  forbidding,  threatening  gestures  ! 
They  were  the  ice  spirits  abroad  on  their  moonlight  revels, 
and  imagination  cannot  conceive  of  their  resplendent  beauty. 


48  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

Ah !  let  poets  rave  about  mermaids,  sitting  on  the  coral  cliffs 
of  ocean,  braiding  their  sea-green  ringlets — of  maids  enticing 
the  River  Gods  with  their  strains  of  more  than  mortal  melody ; 
but  they  cannot  compare  with  the  ice  spirits,  the  Aurora 
Borealis  children  of  a  feverish  imagination.  They  rise  in 
clusters  above  the  foam-crested  waves.  Their  hair  flows  in 
ringlets  of  diamonds ;  their  eyes  are  the  cold,  bright  northern 
stars,  sparkling  under  lashes  of  frozen  mist ;  their  smile,  the 
reflection  of  moonlight  on  the  polar  seas.  They  come  nearer 
and  nearer.  I  feel  their  pure,  chill  breath  on  my  burning 
cheek;  they  stretch  out  their  cold,  glittering  arms,  and  I 
feel  myself  slowly,  lingeringly,  closely  elapsed  to  their  bosom 
of  ice. 

The  vision  vanishes.  The  beautiful  mocking  spirits  are 
gone.  There  is  nothing  but  the  still  midnight  moonbeams 
shining  in  through  the  lattice-work,  silvering  the  large  leaves 
of  the  vine,  and  making  bright,  gauzy  festoons,  looped  up  by 
beams  and  fastened  by  stars  against  the  flower-twined  frame- 
work. The  night-breeze  rustles  through  the  long  trailing 
tendrils,  clambering  over  the  bars,  and  shakes  the  crimson 
blossoms  that  enrich  the  deep  green  of  the  leaf-work.  How 
like  the  whisper  of  invisible  spirits  it  sounds  !  Another  vision 
rises.  It  comes  from  an  icy-cold  world,  and  a  feeling  of  inex- 

fressible  repose  is  diffused  over  the  restless,  panting  spirit, 
t  comes  from  the  land  of  coolness  and  rest.  It  is  not  the 
breeze  that  sighs  through  the  vine  leaves — it  is  the  breath  of 
those  who  have  mingled  again  with  the  elements  from  which 
they  were  originally  created.  They  never  speak  but  in  the. 
silence  of  the  niyht.  They  never  come  forth  but  in  the  moon- 
light hour. 

Thus  the  vision  flows : 

Oh!  'twas  a  dream — a  sweet,  a  dewy  dream — 

Sent  to  refresh  me  in  the  feverish  hour ; 
The  cooling  murmur  of  the  forest  stream, 

The  west-wind  whispering  to  the  fainting  flower. 

Oh !  blessed  mother !  I,  once  more  a  child, 
On  thy  dear  bosom,  in  thy  arms  reclined — 

Thy  lips  of  love  met  mine  and  gently  smiled, 
Thy  tender  hand  my  burning  one  entwined. 

I  felt  thy  fingers  on  my  throbbing  brow, 

Thy  breath  sighed  softly  on  my  glowing  cheek ; 

Oh!  angel  ministrant,  where  art  thou  now? 
Speak  to  me,  mother,  blessed  mother,  speak ! 


MAGNOLIA  LEAVES.  249 

Thou  hast  no  voice — thou  turnest  on  my  gaze 

Eyes  of  immortal  depth — my  spirit  quails 
Beneath  their  still,  unfathomable  rays — 

Lamps  of  the  tomb !  what  mist  your  brightness  veils  ? 

Again  I  seem  alone.     My  head  is  laid 

On  the  damp  grass,  beneath  the  willow's  boughs; 

The  pallid  moonbeams  glimmer  through  the  shade, 
And  the  night  air  in  rippling  coolness  flows. 

I  see  a  marble  stone  gleam  pure  and  white — 
The  dead,  my  soul,  the  dead  are  sleeping  near — 

My  mother's  name  gleams  in  that  ghostly  light, 
That  blessed  name  !  then,  wherefore  should  I  fear  ? 

Oft,  in  my  dreams,  I've  seen  that  sacred  mound : 
That  gleaming  marble  in  the  churchyard's  gloom : 

There  have  I  knelt  and  wept,  while  sweeping  round, 
I've  felt  the  chilling  shadows  of  the  tomb. 

Dear,  sainted  mother !  in  the  languid  hour 

Of  pain  and  sickness,  how  my  heart  has  thrilled 

O'er  childhood's  memories,  and  each  bosom  flower 
With  more  than  earthly  redolence  been  filled! 

It  was  not  all  a  dream.     There  lingers  yet 
A  life,  a  warmth — a  deep,  immortal  glow — 

My  soul  with  thine  in  heavenly  trance  has  met, 
While  dim  and  cold  Time's  billows  roll  below. 

And  we  shall  meet  again,  my  spirit  saith, 

Where  sorrow,  pain,  and  death  can  never  come : 

Oh !  for  the  wings  of  a  triumphant  Faith ! 
Oh  !  for  that  land  of  glory,  light,  and  bloom  ! 

With  the  soft  lulling  of  the  midnight  gale,  the  holy  vision 
passeth  away,  leaving  behind  a  balmness,  a  coolness,  a  divine 
repose,  that  is  not  born  of  this  world.  If  it  were  possible  to 
describe  fully  and  clearly  a  revcry  like  this  !  There  certainly 
are  moments  when  the  wall  that  separates  us  from  the  spirit 
land,  which  sometimes  seems  of  iron  darkness  and  thickness, 
is  thin  and  clear  and  brittle  as  glass — when  we  fear  to  move, 
lest  it  shiver  and  break — and  we  find  ourselves  in  the  unveiled 
presence  of  the  mystery  of  mysteries. 

Byron  says  a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  his  dream — and 

so  there  came  o'er  mine.     Of  all  forms  of  existence,  that  of 

revery  approaches  nearest  the  heavenly.     The  body  is  but  an 

accident.     It  might  belong  to  any  one  else,  for  any  interest 

183 


250  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

that  we  may  feel  in  it.  Only  let  it  lie  still  and  feel  a  breeze 
stealing  over  it,  and  it  will  trouble  no  one,  unless  the  demon 
of  fever  gains  possession  of  it.  Oh  !  delightful  revery  !  Oh  ! 
soothing,  vague  dream  of  existence  !  quietude  succeeding  pain- 
ful excitement — subsidence  of  the  stormy  waves  of  thought  ? 

There  is  more  of  the  earth,  earthy,  in  this  phase  of  the 
dream-picture ;  but  it  is  the  flowers,  the  bloom,  the  sweetness 
of  earth;  nothing  dark  or  subterranean  about  it.  The  ice 
spirits  no  longer  come  glittering,  smiling,  in  their  cold,  un- 
earthly beauty ;  the  angel  spirits  no  more  glide  between  me 
and  the  moonbeams;  there  are  earthly  forms  and  earthly  faces, 
all  wearing  the  stamp  of  a  heavenly  mission — all  mingling  so 
with  spiritual  dreams,  one  cannot  tell  where  the  ideal  and  the 
real  meet. 

There  is  a  sweet  maiden,  of  a  Saxon  name,  with  blue,  loving 
eyes,  and  a  glad,  affectionate  smile,  who  seems  formed  to  be 
the  ministrant  of  peace  and  comfort  to  the  suffering  children 
of  humanity.  How  quiet  and  gentle  are  her  motions  !  How 
calm  and  tender  the  accents  of  her  voice  !  She  conies  near — 
she  bears  in  her  hand  a  crystal  dish,  in  which  the  most  beauti- 
ful crimson  blends  with  the  purest  white.  A  cool,  refreshing 
dew  gems  the  crystalline  surface  of  the  vessel.  Angels  of 
mercy  and  ministers  of  consolation  !  It  is  some  of  Stntppcr's 
delicious  strawberry  cream — the  nectar,  the  ambrosia  of  the 
Gods !  But  alas !  the  dewy  glass  vanishes — the  blushing 
cream  melts  into  air — the  loving,  blue-eyed  maiden  disappears, 
and  nothing  is  left  to  fill  the  aching  void.  Yes — another  conies 
— another  damsel,  as  kind,  as  gentle,  and  as  good,  with  a  glad- 
der smile  and  a  more  joyous  accent;  and  the  perfume  of  violets 
embalms  the  air  through  which  she  moves ;  a  crystal  vase,  in 
which  the  ice-beams  sparkle,  glitters  in  her  hands.  She  ad- 
ministers the  cooling  draught,  when,  just  as  it  is  about  to  touch 
the  thirsty  lip,  it  dries  up,  leaving  nothing  but  the  empty  cup 
of  Tantalus — the  fever  of  unsatisfied  desire. 

"  /  will  not  deceive  you,"  exclaimed  a  mild,  sympathizing 
voice;  "  for  my  office  is  to  bind  up  the  wounds  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  to  heal  the  sorrows  that  man  is  born  to  feel.  If 
there  must  be  suffering,  be  it  mine  to  relieve.  If  there  must 
be  a  shadow,  be  it  mine  to  gild  and  soften  the  edges." 

Ah  !  I  know  that  voice,  and  I  know  the  expression  of  that 
gentle,  sympathizing  countenance,  "  that  seems  to  love  whate'er 
it  looks  upon."  Often  and  often  has  it  come,  in  the  night- 
time of  care,  and  left  an  impression  of  hope  and  brightness 


MAGNOLIA    LEAVES.  251 

behind  it.  But  it  will  not  now  remain  long.  Between  it  and 
me  the  Chattahoochee  is  now  rolling :  and  it  rolls  between  me 
and  the  fair-haired  maiden,  who  wears  the  name  a  beauteous 
Saxon  damsel  once  adorned :  and  it  rolls  between  me  and  the 
maiden  embalmed  with  the  violets'  sweet  perfume,  and  many 
another  angel  spirit,  too  :  and  it  rolls  a  watery  barrier  between 
me  and  that  well-remembered  saloon,  where  strawberries  and 
ice-cream  temper  the  sultriness  of  summer's  burning  heat.  It 
is  all  a  mirage.  There  is  nothing  but  memory  left.  Nothing 
but  memory !  Ah  !  memory  is  a  great  deal.  What  would 
life  be  without  it  ? 

Reveries  !  Well,  I  suppose  reveries  are  very  foolish  things  ; 
but  Ike  Marvel  has  written  a  whole  book  about  reveries,  which 
everybody  loves  to  read,  from  the  simple  fact  that  they  are 
idealities,  and  that  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  them — that 
is,  of  reality.  But  realities  are  sometimes  very  sweet,  and 
make  us  cease  to  sigh  for  what  is  beyond  our  reach.  What  a 
delicious  cloud  of  fragrance  is  floating  near !  What  a  charm- 
ing bouquet  comes,  bearing  the  greetings  of  friendship,  asso- 
ciated with  the  charms  of  refinement  'and  taste !  The  rich 
breath  of  the  glowing  oleander — the  sweet  and  graceful  honey- 
suckle— the  most  beautiful  of  roses — the  waxen  petals  of  the 
cape  jasmine — unite  to  grace  this  token  of  kindly  sympathy. 
Nor  is  this  all.  Green  and  refreshing  clusters  of  newly 
gathered  grapes,  show  how  beautiful  the  assemblage  of  fruit 
and  flowers  may  be ! 

Yes  !  this  is  a  beautiful  world  !  It  is  full,  overflowing  with 
beauty  and  kindness,  and  yet  we  are  often  unconscious  of  it, 
from  its  very  diffusiveness.  Like  the  air  we  breathe,  it  is  all 
round  and  about  us,  and  we  only  know  how  happy  it  makes  us 
from  our  wretchedness  when  it  is  withdrawn.  There  is  so 
much  to  admire  and  love,  we  sigh  for  capacity  to  take  in  the 
full  amount  of  blessedness.  How  can  a  single  heart  take  in 
the  boundless  circumference  of  God's  mercies  ? 

Yet,  there  ar  so  many  strange  people  in  the  world,  one 
knows  not  what  to  think  of  them.  They  walk  along  through 
paths  all  strewn  with  flowers,  with  as  much  indifference  as  if 
they  were  wading  through  weeds. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  this  fading  tinselry  ?"  they  say;  "  we 
have  not  time  to  gather  it ;"  and  so  they  hurry  along  and 
gather  up  handfuls  of  yellow  dust  instead;  and  they  rush 
along  the  shore  of  life,  picking  up  pebbles  and  sand,  letting 
the  pearls  and  diamonds  go,  as  too  much  trouble  to  gather. 


252  MAGNOLIA  LEAVES. 

They  must  dive  for  the  pearls  and  filter  the  sand  for  diamonds. 
The  pebbles  lie  smooth  on  the  surface,  and  they  shine  in  the 
sunbeams  almost  as  brightly. 

Well,  whether  we  gather  pebbles  or  diamonds,  pearls  or 
sand-grains,  the  great  ocean  of  truth  keeps  rolling  on,  and  we 
are  borne  on  with  it.  Whether  we  gather  flowers  or  weeds, 
the  great  garden  of  Nature  keeps  blooming  on,  and  the  air  of 
life  is  laden  with  the  fragrance. 

Life  itself  is  a  long,  beautiful  revery.  In  the  fitful  fever 
and  unrest,  the  strife  and  turmoil  of  existence,  we  dream  of 
the  ice  spirits  that  will  come  with  their  breath  of  frost  and 
cool  the  veins,  panting  with  excitement  and  throbbing  with 
heat.  We  dream  of  the  spirit  ministrants,  fanning  us  with 
their  wings  of  love,  and  tempering  with  their  cool  celestial 
plumage  the  sultriness  of  a  day  of  care.  We  dream  of  the 
loved  ones,  whom  space  severs  and  distance  divides,  but  whose 
hearts  are  a  part  of  our  own  identity,  and  make  but  one  pulse 
with  our  own. 

By  and  by,  the  fever  will  pass  away — the  reveries  will  pass 
away — and  who  can  tell  the  brightness,  the  beauty,  the  glory 
of  the  awakening?  "  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  hath  ear  heard 
it,  nor  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  it" 
But  God  knows,  and  it  is  the  office  of  Faith  to  wait,  and  trust, 
and  believe.  "•-:<.»• 

QUIXCT,  August  31,  1852. 


THE  PARADISE  OF  THE  DEAD. 


No.  I. 

AN  intelligent  traveller  has  observed,  "  that  one  could  judge 
of  the  civilization  and  refinement  of  a  people,  by  the  appear- 
ance of  that  silent  city,  peopled  by  the  dead."  If  the  wild 
brier  and  long  grass  are  suffered  to  grow  over  the  neglected 
graves ;  if  the  beast  of  the  wayside  is  suffered  to  desecrate  the 
hallowed  ground,  and  leave  its  defacing  traces  on  the  sinking 
mould — then  we  may  believe  that  the  hearts  of  the  living  are 
in  the  same  neglected  state,  and  that  they  are  unworthy  guar- 
dians of  the  most  sacred  trust  committed  to  mankind. 

The  dead !  how  solemn,  how  awful  the  sound  !  We  invo- 
luntarily pause  and  hold  our  breath  as  we  utter  it.  We  write 
the  phrase,  and  it  assumes  a  sad,  sepulchral  aspect.  The  liv- 
ing !  the  dead !  write  them  side  by  side,  and  see  how  different 
they  appear.  Hues  of  beauty  and  bloom  and  grace  glow 
around  the  first — pallor  and  dullness  and  immobility  settle 
round  the  last.  We  shrink  from  the  contemplation.  We 
veil  our  eyes,  we  fold  the  mantle  close  around  our  hearts,  as 
if  its  very  pulsations  could  see,  and  endeavour  to  exclude  the 
cold  and  dread  reality.  But  in  vain.  The  living  and  the 
dead  are  linked  together  by  a  chain  which  cannot  be  broken, 
and  far  better  is  it  to  wreathe  that  chain  with  flowers  and 
suffer  it  to  fall  lightly  round  our  spirits,  than  writhe  under  its 
pressure,  till  the  gall  and  the  wound  bear  witness  to  the 
bondage. 

The  dead !  how  dear,  how  sacred  the  sound  !  Where  is  the 
eye  that  does  not  involuntarily  glisten  at  its  utterance  ?  Where 
is  the  ear  that  does  not  bend  in  earnest  attention,  as  it  comes 
slowly,  sadly,  like  a  deep-toned  bell,  on  the  hearing  ?  In  the 
moment  of  hilarity,  the  hour  of  happiness,  the  joys  of  social 

(253) 


254          THE  PARADISE  OP  THE  DEAD. 

intercourse,  the  deep  and  thrilling  communion  of  kindred 
hearts,  when  life  wears  a  glow  so  soft  and  bright  that  it  seems 
coloured  with  the  tints  of  heaven,  suddenly  the  thought  of  the 
loved,  the  lost,  the  dead,  flashes  on  the  mind,  and  the  present 
vanishes  like  a  dream.  The  banquet  of  the  heart  is  broken 
up  —  an  invisible  hand  has  written  upon  its  walls,  and  a 
greater  than  Daniel  has  interpreted  the  mystic  characters.  We 
feel  our  own  utter  impotence,  the  uncertainty  of  every  earthly 
blessing,  the  frail  tenure  by  which  we  hold  them,  and  clasping 
our  hands  over  our  aching  bosoms,  we  raise  our  imploring  eyes 
to  heaven,  wondering  why  we  are  born  to  love,  only  to  mourn 
— to  cherish  the  sweet  flowers  of  affection,  only  to  see  them 
wither  away  and  die  upon  the  tomb. 

The  dead  !  how  sublime,  how  glorious  is  the  sound  !  If  the 
living  and  the  dead  are  linked  together  by  a  chain  that  cannot 
be  broken,  so  are  the  dead  and  the  immortal.  There  is  but 
one  passage  to  heaven — a  dark,  subterranean  one,  winding 
through  sunless  regions  and  mouldering  relics  and  vestiges  of 
corruption — through  the  vast  Herculaneum  of  life — but  a  light 
gleams  in  the  dim  earth-gallery.  It  grows  brighter  and 
brighter  and  clearer  and  clearer — and  when  the  gates  open 
there  is  an  exceeding  blaze  of  glory.  Yes,  the  gates  of  the 
grave  are  the  portals  of  the  skies — and  the  Lord  of  the  skies 
came  down  and  walked  himself  through  the  deep  aisles  of  that 
subterranean  gallery,  and  left  a  brightening  light  for  the  poor 
wanderers  of  earth  to  follow. 

From  earliest  antiquity  the  memory  of  the  dead  has  been 
hallowed. 

Abraham,  the  aged  patriarch,  "stood  up  from,  before  his 
dead,  and  spake  unto  the  sons  of  Keth,  saying, 

"  I  am  a  stranger  and  a  sojourner  with  you ;  give  me  a  pos- 
session of  a  burying-place  with  you,  that  I  may  bury  my  dead 
out  of  my  sight." 

The  cave  of  the  field  of  Machpelah  became  the  burying- 
place  of  Sarah  his  wife  —  and  when  he  was  gathered  to  his 
fathers,  he  was  laid  by  her  side,  in  man's  first  purchased  rest- 
ing-place. 

The  Scriptures  abound  in  allusions  to  the  sacredness  attached 
to  the  last  home  of  man.  The  solid  rock  was  hewn  as  a  re- 
ceptacle for  his  remains,  and  the  running  brook  murmured 
mournfully  by  the  place  of  his  repose.  The  wild  Indian 
cherishes,  with  superstitious  reverence,  the  relics  of  his  ances- 
tors. If  he  raises  his  wigwam  in  newer  hunting-grounds,  he 


THE  PARADISE  OP  THE  DEAD.          255 

bears  with  him  their  mouldering  bones,  that  he  may  chase 
with  them  the  deer  and  the  buffalo,  in  the  land  where  the 
Great  Spirit  dwells. 

The  Romans  had  a  sublime  custom  of  burning  their  dead, 
thus  purifying  them  from  corruption,  and  sparing  them  the 
sad  and  humiliating  process  of  slow  decay.  They  gathered 
the  sacred  dust  in  an  urn,  which  they  could  bear  with  them, 
from  clime  to  clime,  and,  clasping  it  to  their  yearning  hearts, 
almost  cheat  themselves  into  the  belief,  that 

"  Even  in  their  ashes  lived  the  wonted  fires." 

"  But  where,"  methinks  some  voice  exclaims,  "  is  the  Pa- 
radise of  the  Dead,  to  which  our  thoughts  were  directed  at  the 
commencement  of  these  lines?" 

Have  you  ever  visited  Greenwood  Cemetery  ?  If  you  have, 
you  will  realize  the  truth  of  the  expression.  If  you  have  not, 
you  should  make  a  pilgrimage  there  at  once,  and  wander  amid 
its  green  paths  and  lovely  enclosures,  till  you  feel  your  spirit 
bathed  in  the  divine  repose  of  the  scene,  and  you  long  to  set 
up  there  your  everlasting  rest. 

This  beautiful  burying-ground  is  in  Brooklyn,  several  miles 
from  the  city  of  New  York.  As  you  pass  along  the  road  that 
leads  to  it,  with  the  magnificent  Bay  on  your  right,  its  wide 
expanse  of  water  glittering  in  the  sunbeams,  so  calmly  and 
majestically,  your  mind  becomes  gradually  solemnized,  for 
there  is  always  something  solemn  in  deep  beauty  combined 
with  great  extent.  You  approach  the  Gate  of  Visite.rs. 
The  access  to  this  entrance  has  an  air  of  seclusion  appropriate 
to  the  solemn  resting-place  of  the  dead.  Graceful  structures 
from  the  masterly  designs  of  Upjohn,  guarding  this  entrance, 
enhance  with  their  exquisite  decorations  the  beauty  of  the 
Cemetery. 

Once  admitted  into  this  labyrinth  of  bloom  and  verdure, 
you  feel  bewildered  at  its  prodigality  of  loveliness,  and  hardly 
know  where  to  turn,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  winding  alley?. 
But  after  walking  a  short  distance,  your  ear  catches  the  faint 
murmur  of  waters, — faint  and  sweet  as  the  echo  of  a  dream. 
Directed  by  the  sound,  you  approach  the  margin  of  Sylvan 
Water,  a  deep,  perennial  lake,  covering  at  least  three  acres 
of  ground.  In  the  centre  of  this  lake  a  fountain  throws 
up  its  silvery  spray,  flashing  and  sparkling  through  the  green 
shrubbery  that  shades,  and  the  willows  that  sweep  over  its 


256          THE  PARADISE  OF  THE  DEAD. 

banks.  The  birds  make  their  nests  in  these  marginal  boughs, 
and  make  these  funereal  solitudes  vocal  with  the  melody  of 
heaven. 

Near  the  south-western  corner  of  Sylvan  Lake,  there  is  a 
gently  undulating  mound,  crowned  by  a  monument,  comme- 
morative of  the  death  of  a  beautiful  daughter  of  the  forest. 
Dohumme,  the  lovely  Indian,  was  the  child  of  a  Sachem  among 
the  Sac  Indians.  When  a  delegation  of  the  Sacs  and  the  lowas 
visited  "Washington  and  the  principal  Atlantic  cities,  the  young 
Dohumme  accompanied  her  father,  and  in  the  same  band  was 
a  brave  and  youthful  Iowa  chief.  Attracted  by  the  congenial 
charms  of  youth  and  beauty,  in  the  varying  scenes  of  their 
long  and  interesting  journey,  thus  constantly  associated,  these 
children  of  the  wilderness  learned  to  love  each  other  (if  love 
is  ever  learned),  and  in  conformity  to  their  own  peculiar  and 
simple  rites,  were  united  in  marriage.  In  the  city  of  New 
York  this  young  and  handsome  couple  excited  the  most  un- 
bounded admiration.  The  wild  grace  of  their  aboriginal 
costume,  mingling  with  some  of  the  peculiar  fashions  of  the 
white  race,  the  simplicity  of  their  manners  and  the  originality 
of  their  expressions,  made  them  objects  of  curiosity  and  social 
interest.  But  the  simple  Indian  maid  languished  amid  the 
splendour  of  fashionable  life.  Accustomed  to  the  freedom  of 
her  native  forest,  and  the  simple  diet  of  the  wigwam,  she 
wilted  like  a  mountain  flower  enclosed  in  the  sultry  atmosphere 
of  a  hot-house.  Her  constitution  thus  enfeebled,  she  soon 
became  a  victim  to  disease,  and  died,  far  from  the  home  of 
her  fathers.  On  the  marble  surface  of  the  monument, 
the  figure  of  her  dusky  bridegroom  appears  in  bas-relief, 
mourning  over  this  rose  of  the  wilderness,  thus  untimely 
blighted. 

As  you  continue  your  wanderings,  many  a  stately  obelisk 
arrests  the  gaze,  but  you  naturally  look  for  some  name  that  will 
touch  the  chords  of  remembrance,  or  that  is  associated  in  your 
mind  with  something  dear  to  the  heart  or  inspiring  to  the 
mind.  Ah !  here  is  one — rising  on  a  high  bank  in  the  sud- 
den bend  of  the  tour.  We  are  familiar  with  the  name  of 
CATLIN  (or  at  least  we  ought  to  be),  the  celebrated  Indian 
painter,  or  rather  painter  of  the  Indian  Gallery  of  Portraits, 
which  has  excited  the  admiration  of  the  European  world.  He 
is  not  dead — he  still  lives,  pursuing  his  career  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  genius  and  all  its  confidence  of  success.  But 
Clara,  his  gentle,  lovely  wife,  rests  in  Greenwood's  classic 


THE  PARADISE  OP  THE  DEAD.          257 

shades.  She  died  in  Paris,  but  was  brought  home  to  sleep  in 
her  native  soil.  We  knew  her  well,  and  it  was  with  a  thrill 
of  mingled  delight  and  pain  we  saw  her  memorial  among  so 
many  stranger  graves.  Yes !  strange  as  it  may  seem,  there 
was  an  emotion  of  pleasure  in  gazing  on  that  beauteous  monu- 
ment, and  in  recalling  in  the  chiselled  features  of  the  angel  that 
appears  to  guard  the  shrine,  the  outlines  of  a  fair,  remembered 
face.  Inserted  in  a  head-stone  of  gray  Parisian  limestone  is  a 
tablet  of  dazzling  whiteness.  Upon  this  the  angel  form  is 
carved,  with  outspread  wings,  holding  the  stylus  in  her  hand, 
and  supporting  the  tablet,  on  which  she  appears  to  have  writ- 
ten these  words — 

"  Weep  not  for  me,  my  friends,  but  strive  through  your 
only  Redeemer  to  come  to  me." 

This  sentence  was  extracted  from  the  last  letter  she  ever 
addressed  to  her  friends,  and  is  worthy  to  be  engraven  there. 

While  lingering  near  this  graceful  shrine  of  female  loveliness, 
we  could  not  but  compare  the  stillness  and  melancholy  beauty 
of  the  scene  with  the  one  where  we  last  beheld  her.  Her  hus- 
band was  exhibiting,  with  professional  pride  and  enthusiasm, 
his  magnificent  picture-gallery,  and  exciting  the  most  intense 
interest  by  his  graphic  description  of  Indian  life  and  manners. 
She  was  behind  the  scenes,  assisting  him  to  arrange  the  por- 
traits, and  to  twist  his  wampum  belt  with  aboriginal  grace. 
After  the  public  exhibition  was  over,  we  saw  her,  with  a  deer- 
skin, wrought  with  brilliant  dyes,  thrown  around  her  shoul- 
ders, and  some  badges  of  Indian  royalty  on  her  brow.  She 
seemed  proud,  even  in  sport,  to  share  the  trophies  of  her  gifted 
artist  husband.  And  here  she  lies — so  still,  so  cold,  that  even 
the  terrible  war-whoop,  which  that  night  sounded  in  imitative 
vengeance  in  our  ears,  could  never  awaken  her  more. 

We  pause  before  the  tomb  of  Charlotte  Candee,  the  most 
sumptuous  and  costly  structure  in  the  whole  Cemetery.  We 
have  so  often  heard  of  this,  that  it  seems  like  a  familiar  object 
when  it  first  meets  the  eye.  A  more  elaborate  and  exquisite 
piece  of  workmanship  could  scarcely  be  imagined,  and  if  we 
were  to  judge  of  the  depth  and  strength  of  the  grief,  by  the 
costly  tribute  it  has  paid,  mighty  must  have  been  the  sorrow 
that  embodied  itself  in  this  splendid  mausoleum.  It  is,  indeed, 
the  expression  of  the  most  fervid  parental  love,  bereaved  of  the 
sole  object  of  its  idolatry.  The  circumstances  of  this  bereave- 
ment are  so  sad  and  awful,  it  will  add  interest  to  the  monu- 


258          THE  PARADISE  OP  THE  DEAD. 

ment  to  bring  them  before  the  minds  of  those  who  may,  per- 
chance, be  strangers  to  the  mournful  tragedy. 

Charlotte  Candee  was  the  only  child  of  her  parents,  and  if 
according  testimony  may  be  believed,  of  remarkable  accom- 
plishments, and  rare  moral  excellence.  She  wrote  and  spoke, 
with  accuracy  and  facility,  the  English,  French,  Spanish,  Italian, 
and  German,  and  had  even  acquired  a  competent  knowledge  of 
the  Danish  language.  She  excelled  both  in  vocal  and  instru- 
mental music,  and  her  taste  and  skill  in  drawing  were  equally 
admirable.  To  these  brilliant  acquirements,  she  united  a  dis- 
position of  uncommon  sweetness,  a  heart  filled  with  pure  and 
beautiful  affections,  and  a  spirit  bearing  the  impress  of  its 
heavenly  origin.  This  sweet  disposition,  pure  heart,  and 
heavenly  spirit,  diffused  over  her  countenance  an  indescribable 
charm,  and  imparted  to  her  manners  that  gentle  courtesy, 
which  is  something  than  grace  or  "  beauty  dearer."  She  was 
in  the  flower  of  youth,  at  that  charming  age  when  the  simpli- 
city of  the  child  and  the  intelligence  of  the  woman  begin  to 
meet  and  melt  in  harmony  and  grace.  It  was  on  her  seven- 
teenth birthday  that  the  sad  event  occurred,  which  gave  birth 
to  this  magnificent  demonstration  of  grief.  At  a  festive  enter- 
tainment, given  in  honour  of  this  joyous  era,  she  was  a  pre- 
siding star  —  alas!  soon  to  set  in  a  dark  eclipse!  On  her 
return  home,  accompanied  by  her  father  and  another  young 
lady,  he  left  her  a  few  moments  to  attend  her  companion  to 
her  own  door, — the  driver  in  the  mean  time  dropped  the  reins, 
and  the  horses  suddenly  started  off,  throwing  the  young  girl 
from  the  carriage  to  the  pavement,  causing  instantaneous 
death.  It  seems  that  she  had  a  kind  of  presentiment  of  her 
doom,  for  she  shrank,  with  strange  reluctance,  from  the  evening 
festival,  and  nothing  but  the  consciousness  that  it  was  a  birth- 
day fete,  induced  her  to  conquer  her  nameless  misgivings 
Certainly  the  coming  event  did  "  cast  its  shadow  before," 
if  we  may  judge  by  severa.1  touching  incidents  prior  to  the 
casualty. 

In  the  portfolio  which  contains  most  of  her  drawings,  there 
are  two  which  excite  peculiar  interest.  Every  one  who  has 
read  the  life  of  Cromwell,  must  remember  that  awful,  thrilling 
moment,  when  he  gazed  upon  the  shrouded  and  encoffined  form 
of  the  unfortunate  Charles.  She  had  sketched  the  figure  of 
the  great  usurper,  but  when  about  to  delineate  the  coffin,  the 
pencil  seems  to  have  dropped  from  her  trembling  fingers,  for 
below  is  written  very  faintly — "  Je  n'ai  pu  faire  le  cercueil — 


THE  PARADISE   OF   THE  DEAD.  259 

II  me  glace  d'effroi."  I  could  not  draw  the  coffin  !  It  freezes 
me  with  terror. 

The  day  but  one  before  her  death,  she  again  took  up  the 
pencil  and  completed  the  design — or  rather  gave  the  whole  on 
another  sheet.  The  coffin  was  finished,  and  Cromwell  was 
gazing  sternly  and  sorrowfully  on  the  face  of  his  beheaded 
king.  Below  this  sketch,  these  few  faint  pencilled  lines  were 
discovered  after  her  death :  "  0  mort !  il  faut  apprendre 
t'envisager."  0  Death!  I  must  learn  to  look  tliee  in  the  face  I 
Was  not  this  prophetical  of  the  doom  that  was  even  then  roll- 
ing darkly  behind  her  ? 

There  is  another  interesting  circumstance  connected  with 
this  monument.  A  beloved  aunt  expired  a  few  months  pre- 
vious to  her  own  death,  and  she  exercised  her  remarkable 
taste  in  drawing,  in  designing  a  mausoleum  in  all  the  refine- 
ment of  taste  and  the  lavishness  of  affection.  This  beloved 
relative  sleeps  by  her  side,  protected  by  the  same  monumental 
temple.  It  is  said  that  a  relative  in  France  bequeathed  a 
legacy  to  this  unfortunate^  young  girl,  which  the  parents 
received  after  death.  This"  bequest  of  thirty-five  thousand 
dollars,  they  have  appropriated  to  the  decoration  of  the  spot 
hallowed  by  her  remains, — to  the  composition  of  this  poem 
of  the  affections,  this  elegy  of  the  heart,  written  in  enduring 
marble. 


No.  II. 

WE  conducted  you  to  the  tomb  of  Charlotte  Candee.  Do 
you  feel  sufficient  interest  in  her  early  doom,  to  linger  near 
the  spot,  and  examine  at  your  leisure  its  exquisite  workman- 
ship and  symbolical  decorations  ? 

This  monument  rises  on  a  graceful  mound,  between  three 
gently  undulating  hills,  where  Greenbough  Avenue  intersects 
the  Tour.  Six  rows  of  marble  steps  entirely  surround  an  ob- 
long octagonal  platform,  whose  granite  slab  forms  the  base  of 
the  magnificent  temple  of  Death.  There  are  two  niches.  The 
outer  one  formed  with  panels,  ornamented  with  symbolic 
flowers,  fleurs-de-lys,  significant  of  her  French  extraction,  and 
escutcheons,  bearing  her  alliterative  cipher,  "C.  C."  The 


260          THE  PARADISE  OF  THE  DEAD. 

other  is  formed  by  two  pilasters, — their  bases  and  capitals 
being  adorned  with  roses,  lilies  and  acanthus  leaves.  All  these 
decorations  constitute  a  splendid  frame  for  the  statue  of  the 
young  girl,  which  stands  in  the  alcove.  It  represents  her  as 
sinking  under  the  burden  of  her  destiny.  Clouds  are  hover- 
ing over  her  head,  ready  to  wrap  her,  as  with  a  mantle,  and  a 
radiant  star,  piercing  through  their  shade,  directs  the  thoughts 
to  the  immortality  of  which  it  is  the  emblem. 

We  have  said  before  that  she  expired  on  her  seventeenth 
birth-day.  This  number,  made  sacred  by  her  death,  is  pre- 
served in  all  the  emblems  which  surround  her  ashes.  Seven- 
teen marble  vases  are  placed  at  regular  intervals  around  the 
tomb.  In  every  vase  there  are  seventeen  flowers.  Seventeen 
rose-buds  form  the  cipher  of  her  name,  which  is  surmounted 
by  a  crown  composed  of  seventeen  stars.  On  each  side  of  the 
exterior  niche  rise  two  buttresses  of  the  height  of  seventeen 
feet  above  the  granite  stylobate. 

Upon  either  side  of  the  platform  are  two  lofty  pedestals  of 
granite,  each  supporting  a  figure  with  uplifted  brow  and  prayer- 
ful eyes, — representing  angels  with  outspread  wings,  guarding 
the  sacred  dust  of  innocence  and  youth,  or  waiting  to  bear  the 
early-enfranchised  spirit  to  its  native  heaven.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  go  into  a  minute  detail  of  all  the  minor  adorn- 
ments of  this  tomb.  We  gaze  upon  it  with  admiration,  as  a 
costly  work  of  art — with  sympathy,  as  the  memorial  of  paren- 
tal love — with  pity,  as  the  last  home  of  one  young,  lovely  and 
beloved.  But  the  pure  taste  turns  sated  from  such  prodigality 
of  ornament  and  exuberance  of  expense,  and  rests  upon  some 
simple  obelisk  or  broken  shaft,  as  the  eye,  dazzled  with  a  gor- 
geous display  of  colours,  reposes  on  the  soft  and  refreshing 
green.  The  moral  sense  is  pained  by  the  useless  expenditure 
of  a  liberal  legacy.  In  a  few  years,  the  disregarding  elements 
will  deface  this  spotless  marble,  these  Corinthian  ornaments 
will  crumble  away  beneath  the  iron  fingers  of  Time,  and  these 
cold  and  mocking  flowers  mingle  with  the  ashes  of  their  frail 
and  lovely  prototypes.  We  sigh  at  the  thought  of  the  coming 
ruin,  and  wish  a  grief  so  sacred  had  received  a  more  enduring 
•monument, — some  asylum  for  orphan  innocence  or  suffering 
indigence,  whose  blessings  would  have  embalmed  her  memory, 
whose  prayers  hallowed  the  place  of  her  repose. 

There  is  a  beautiful  monument  on  Battle  Hill,  near  High- 
land Avenue,  erected  to  the  memory  of  two  brothers,  who, 
"lovely  in  their  lives,  in  death  were  not  divided."  George 


THE  PARADISE  OF  THE  DEAD.          261 

and  Albert  Swan,  natives  of  the  "West,  and  inheritors  of  its 
glowing  energy  and  noble  independence  of  character.  George, 
the  elder,  on  his  way  to  the  University  of  Cambridge,  Massa- 
chusetts, was  lost  in  the  ill-fated  Lexington,  on  that  disastrous 
night  when  a  sudden  wave  of  woe  drowned  so  many  hearts  in 
mourning.  He  went  down  into  the  dark  water,  in  all  the 
bright  hopes  of  youth  and  aspirations  of  manhood,  like  a  silver 
arrow  shooting  across  a  midnight  sky,  leaving  no  trace  on  the 
darkness.  Albert,  the  younger,  started  for  the  same  classic 
shades,  but  a  deeper  shade  was  waiting  to  envelope  him.  Ar- 
rived at  New  York,  he  was  arrested  by  sudden  disease,  where 
he  languished  and  died.  A  carved  and  massy  base  supports 
two  graceful  fluted  columns,  which  are  twined  together  with  a 
marble  garland  of  wreathing  blossoms,  a  beautiful  emblem  of 
the  fraternal  love  which  bound  them  in  life  and  seems  still  to 
unite  them  in  death. 

Do  you  see  that  stately  obelisk,  rising  from  the  loftiest  crown 
of  Battle  Hill,  one  of  the  most  elevated  positions  in  the  Ceme- 
try,  flashing  its  sun-silvered  summit  towards  the  Bay,  where 
the  stately  vessel  and  gallant  boat  are  gliding,  and  the  anchored 
ship  is  resting,  with  its  sails  furled  and  its  ropes  dangling 
around  the  mast  ? 

It  is  the  Pilot's  monument — a  beacon  star,  to  which  the 
wrecking  mariners  may  turn  their  straining  eyes,  in  the  hope 
that  another  Freeborn,  with  generous  heart  and  dauntless 
spirit,  may  wrestle  with  the  elements  in  their  behalf  and  en- 
deavour to  save  them  from  a  watery  grave.  The  Pilots  of  New 
York  reared  this  monumental  structure  in  memory  of  Thomas 
Freeborn,  a  brave  and  noble  comrade,  who  perished  by  the 
wreck  of  the  John  M  in  turn,  which  he  had  undertaken  to  con- 
duct into  port.  Within  sight  of  the  Jersey  shore,  where  she 
was  driven  by  a  tremendous  gale — within  sight  and  hail  of  a 
multitude  powerless  to  shield  it  from  the  fury  of  the  storm — 
the  gallant  bark  went  down.  Chilled  by  the  wet,  benumbed 
by  the  cold,  almost  all  on  board  perished  before  the  final 
catastrophe. 

The  hardy  and  self  forgetting  Pilot  stood,  in  this  hour  of 
mortal  agony,  in  the  midst  of  the  blinding  sleet  and  icy  spray, 
a  sheet  anchor,  round  which  feebler  frames  and  weaker  spirits 
clung.  There  he  stood  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  on  which  the 
sleet  had  hung  its  glittering  but  deadly  wreathes,  covering 
with  his  outer  garments  the  shrinking,  shivering,  expiring, 
female  forms  he  sought  to  save  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own 


262  THE  PARADISE   OF  THE   DEAD. 

life.  But  though  his  "home  was  on  the  mountain  wave, 
his  path  upon  the  deep"— fearless  and  brave  though  he  was — 
he  could  not  cope  with  the  strength  of  ocean's  God. 

"  The  billows  raged, 
The  Pilot's  art  was  vain— 

O'er  the  tall  mast  the  circling  surges  closed, 
#  The  vessel  plunged  within  a  watery  plain." 

Hero  of  the  ocean  !  well  dost  thou  merit  this  memorial  of 
gratitude  and  admiration.  When  thy  bark  was  tossing  upon 
the  waves  of  Jordan,  a  heavenly  Pilot  was  at  the  helm,  steer- 
ing thee  to  the  haven  of  everlasting  repose.  Thou  art  safe 
from  the  tempests  of  life, — no  stormy  winds  sweep  over  the 
sea  of  glass  that  laves  the  shores  of  the  eternal  land.  Peace 
to  thee,  gallant  spirit !  a  crown  for  thee,  warrior  of  the  deep  ! 

The  monument  is  an  embodiment  of  moral  and  emblematic 
ideas.  From  a  massive  base  there  rises  a  square  sarcophagus, 
on  which  a  ship's  capstan  is  resting,  with  the  cable  which  is 
wrapped  in  winding  coils  around  it,  rent  in  twain.  A  broken 
mast  rises  from  the  capstan.  Hope,  leaning  on  her  anchor, 
points  to  the  blue  and  smiling  skies.  On  the  front  of  the 
sarcophagus,  the  ocean,  lashed  into  billows,  bearing  on  its 
bosom  a  shattered  and  sinking  vessel,  is  represented  in  bas- 
relief. 

It  is  interesting  to  reflect,  that  the  soil  now  hallowed  by  the 
ashes  of  the  hero,  the  statesman,  and  the  scholar,  whose  graves 
are  clustering  around  us — this  spot,  so  peaceful,  so  solemn, 
was  once  a  battle-ground.  In  the  valley,  which  extends  from 
the  spot  we  have  just  indicated  northwestwardly  to  the  Bay, 
the  British  forces  under  General  Grant,  and  those  of  the 
Americans  commanded  by  Lord  Stirling,  first  came  in  contact 
on  the  26th  of  August,  1776.  Many  a  gallant  soldier  then 
moistened  with  his  blood  the  green  sward  which  pillowed  his 
dying  head  and  enriched  the  earth  with  the  costliest  libation 
that  ever  was  poured  at  the  altar  of  liberty.  No  marble  shaft 
pointing  to  heaven  commemorates  their  fate,  but  they  have  a 
monument  in  every  American  heart,  round  which  the  garland 
of  memory  blooms  with  undying  verdure. 

Do  you  observe  that  pyramidal,  magnificent  column  towering 
iH-:ir  tulip  Hill?  It  is  grand !  it  is  majestic!  worthy  to  be 
the  representative  of  the  mighty  element,  whose  power  caused 
its  elevation.  It  is  the  Firemen's  monument,  and  a  statue  of 
one  of  these  daring  sons  of  fire  surmounts  the  massy  pillar, 


THE  PARADISE  OFXTHE  DEAD.  263 

and  looks  down  on  ocean,  hill,  and  plain.  One  arm  encircles 
a  child,  just  rescued  from  the  flames,  still  curling  behind  it, — 
his  right  hand  grasps  a  trumpet.  Around  him,  the  swinging 
engine-lantern,  the  wreath-crowned  cap,  the  hook  and  ladder, 
may  all  be  seen, — implements  of  relief,  which  the  martyrs  to 
humanity,  who  slumber  below,  will  never  more  make  sub- 
servient to  their  use.  The  Engineers  of  the  New  York  Fire 
Department  erected  this  mausoleum  to  the  memory  of  several 
of  their  companions  who  perished  in  the  flames,  from  which 
they  were  endeavouring  to  rescue  their  fellow  beings.  Earth 
hath  Us  part,  the  sea  hath  its  part,  the  fire  hath  its  part — but 
the  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  fire,  will  one  day  give  up  their  dead, 
and  death  and  time  be  no  more. 

We  would  like  to  pause  by  every  enclosure  which  the  hand 
of  affection  has  guarded,  by  every  memorial  which  love,  or 
memory,  or  gratitude  has  reared  j  but  in  this  vast  congregation 
of  tombs — this  cold  and  still,  but  eloquent  and  beautiful 
marble  band,  assembled  on  the  green  battle-ground  of  death, 
we  can  only  select  a  few  as  companions  and  friends.  There 
is  a  large  space  at  the  right  of  the  entrance  appropriated  to 
the  graves  of  the  unambitious  and  lowly.  These  oblong  hil- 
locks, so  green  and  symmetrical,  with  just  the  narrowest  path 
between,  seemed  to  me  the  footprints  of  death  left  on  the 
heaving  earth.  Some  simple  and  affecting  memorials  of  love 
marked  these  velvet-covered  beds  of  clay.  A  kneeling  angel 
here — an  innocent  lamb  there.  On  one  side  a  dove  with 
spreading  pinions — on  the  other  a  sleeping  cherub — all  making 
the  place  of  graves  beautiful  to  the  eye  and  touching  to  the 
heart. 

How  lovely  is  the  morning !  A  few  white,  fleecy  clouds 
are  floating  near  the  horizon,  so  softly,  slowly,  that  even  in 
their  very  motion  there  is  rest.  Blue  and  radiant  as  the 
heavens  above,  the  broad,  glorious  Bay  stretches  yonder  its 
voluminous  waters,  glassing  the  Empire  City  in  its  sparkling 
mirror.  Wandering  in  this  Paradise  of  the  Dead,  with  its 
marble  spires,  heaving  upwards  their  symbolic  crowns — its 
luxuriant  shrubbery,  odoriferous  flowers,  silver  lakes,  weeping 
willows,  softly  murmuring  fountains,  melodious  birds,  and 
sweetly  solemn  shades — we  feel  oppressed  by  the  deep  loveli- 
ness, the  sublime  quietude  of  the  scene,  and  sigh  under  the 
burden  of  unutterable  thoughts.  It  seems  sacrilege  to  speak 
where  the  genius  of  everlasting  silence  appears  to  have  lifted 
up  its  marble  throne.  A  gentle  wind  stirs  the  funereal  foliage, 


264          THE  PARADISE  OP  THE  DEAD. 

and  wafts  the  fragrance  of  the  grave-flowers  in  incense  clouds 
over  the  dead.  We  imagine  we  can  hear  the  faint  rustling  of 
invisible  wings,  mingling  with  the  voice  of  the  fountains  and 
the  sighs  of  the  gale.  "We  even  fancy,  as  we  look  upward, 
that  we  can  see  the  silver  glimmer  of  angel  wings  above  the 
white  gliding  vapours.  The  spirits  of  the  dead  may  be  hover- 
ing near,  and  it  seems  that  the  happiness  of  Heaven  itself 
might  be  enhanced  by  the  consciousness  of  the  embalming 
memories  of  earth. 

We  are  about  to  leave  these  quiet,  winding  paths,  for  the 
crowded  thoroughfares  of  the  great  city ;  but,  before  the  gates 
are  closed,  let  us  look  around  at  that  massy  tomb  on  the  right. 
It  is  called  the  Reception  Tomb,  where  the  bodies  of  sti-angers 
are  deposited  till  their  distant  friends  can  claim  their  ashes 
and  bear  them  to  kindred  dust.  An  incident  was  related  to 
us,  connected  with  this  vault,  which  was  thrillingly  awful: 

A  gentleman  brought  his  bride  to  this  fashionable  resort  of 
the  Metropolitans.  They  wandered  together  through  its  charm- 
ing avenues  and  leafy  bowers,  and  at  length  passed  by  the 
reception-tomb,  whose  marble  doors  were  unfortunately  open, 
— a  stranger  having  just  been  deposited  there.  They  stood  on 
the  threshold,  and  looked,  with  mingled  curiosity  and  dread, 
into  its  dark  and  gloomy  apartments.  Laying  his  hand  lightly 
on  her  shoulder,  he  threatened  sportively  to  enclose  her  there, 
and  thus  rid  himself  of  the  new-made  shackles  that  bound  him. 
With  childish  terror,  she  sprang  from  him,  caught  hold  of  the 
door,  which  had  a  spring-lock,  and  which,  obeying  the  impulse 
she  had  unconsciously  given  it,  closed  suddenly  upon  her,  pre- 
cipitating her  into  the  vault  where  the  coflmed  dead  were  laid. 
We- dare  not  follow  her  there.  By  a  strange  fatality,  the  key 
had  been  carried  away  by  a  gentleman  who  left  that  morning 
for  Xow  York.  It  was  hours  before  he  was  overtaken,  or  she 
liberated  from  her  awful  prison-house.  What  were  the  reflec- 
tions of  her  husband  during  this  interval  may  be  imagined ; 
but  one  who  could  indulge  in  a  light  jest  on  such  solemn 
ground,  and  in  the  presence  of  such  dread  mementoes  as  that 
open  tomb  disclosed,  could  not  have  the  depth  of  feeling  neces- 
sary for  the  fulness  of  suffering.  She  was  found  as  pallid  and 
nearly  as  insensible  as  her  ghastly  companions;  and  a  long 
and  dangerous  illness  was  the  result  of  this  act  of  conjugal 
levity  on  the  threshold  of  the  subterranean  mansion  of  death. 
Whether  she  forgave  her  husband  for  her  premature  interment, 


THE  PARADISE  OP  THE  DEAD.          265 

we  do  not  know ;  but  we  should  think  the  cold  atmosphere  of 
mortality  must  have  at  least  chilled  the  warmth  of  wedded  love. 

Farewell,  ye  beautiful  and  solemn  shades  !  We  look  back 
once  more  upon  your  sun-gilt  monuments  with  glistening  eyes. 
We  almost  envy  your  tranquil  inmates,  silent  city  of  the  dead  ! 
We  shrink  from  returning  to  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the  world, 
the  restlessness  and  strife  of  human  passion.  De^th,  instead  of 
seeming  the  King  of  Terrors,  wears  the  guise  of  an  angel  of 
light.  We  think  it  would  be  sweet  to  lie  down  in  those  green 
beds,  near  those  still  waters  and  flowering  shrubs,  after  having 
fathomed  the  great  mystery  of  life.  We  would  wish  no  proud 
monument  to  mark  the  spot  to  the  stranger's  eye, — no  pompous 
epitaph  or  studied  elegy,  mockeries  of  the  grief  that  passeth 
show.  Sufficient  for  us  if  some  hearts  that  loved  us  in  life 
should  throb  with  tenderer  remembrances  at  the  mention  of 
our  name; — if  some  pure  drops,  not  born  of  the  earth-vapours, 
should  mingle  with  the  twilight  dews  that  glittered  on  our 
grave.  We  would  not  presumptuously  ask  to  be  remembered 
by  the  world, — that  wide  wilderness,  where  the  single  leaf  falls 
unregarded  to  the  ground ; — but  we  would  address  to  the  few 
in  whose  memory  friendship  is  immortal,  the  words  of  one 
whose  lips  are  now  closed  with  the  hermetic  seal  of  death : 

"  Oh  !  mes  amis,  rappelez-vous  quelquefois  mes  vers ;  mon 
ame  y  est  empreinte." 

Beautifully  has  Felicia  Hemans  breathed  forth  her  yearnings 
for  remembrance  in  the  hearts  of  her  friends.  Do  not  such 
strains  as  these  find  a  world-wide  echo  ? 

"  When  will  ye  think  of  me,  sweet  friends  ? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erflow  your  eye, 
At  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody, — 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream, — 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream, — 

Then  let  it  be. 
tr 

"  Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  friends, 

Thus  ever  think  of  me ; 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone, — 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, — 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found, —     • 
So  let  it  be." 


134 


THE  SEX  OF  THE  SOUL. 


THE  question  respecting  the  relative  intellectual  powers  of 
men  and  women,  is  one  which  has  been  often  agitated,  hut 
never  fully  resolved.  Nor  can  it  be,  till  the  laws  which  bind 
society  together  are  changed,  and  both  sexes  are  subject  to  the 
same  mental  discipline.  In  all  ages  of  the  world,  there  have 
been  instances  of  women,  whose  expansive  minds  have  burst 
through  the  shackles  which  prejudice  and  education  have 
bound  around  them,  and  rising  above  the  standard  of  their 
sex,  have  almost  shamed  by  their  rapid  progress  in  knowledge, 
the  slower  attainments  of  man.  These,  however,  are  only  lu- 
minous points,  rendered  more  dazzling  from  the  surrounding 
dimness.  "We  have  never  read  of  a  nation  of  women,  tran- 
scending or  equalling  the  masculine  sex  in  intellectual  vigour, 
for  the  general  principles  of  education  have  never  allowed  this 
equality,  and  the  first  rules  impressed  on  the  female  mind  are 
those  which  bind  it  to  a  more  limited  and  peculiar  sphere. 

Man  is  taught  from  his  early  boyhood,  that  he  is  the  lord 
of  creation,  formed  to  rule  and  command,  not  by  the  exertion 
of  brutal  force,  but  by  the  powers  of  a  godlike  mind.  The 
mighty  principle  of  ambition  is  awakened  within  him.  The 
great  models  of  ancient  days  are  placed  before  him.  An  un- 
dying thirst  for  fame,  an  unquenchable  fire  is  lighted  up  in 
his  breast.  His  eye  waxes  dim  over  the  classic  page,  his  cheek 
grows  pale  over  the  midnight  lamp.  Yet  his  spirit  faints 
not.  The  dews  of  Castaly  refresh  his  feverish  lips,  the  gales 
that  are  wafted  from  the  groves  of  Academus  fan  his  burning 
brow.  He  comes  forth  from  the  shades  of  his  closet,  rich  in 
the  love  of  other  days,  to  take  his  station  amid  the  high  places 
of  the  earth. 

(266) 


THE  SEX   OP  THE   SOUL.  267 

He  becomes  the  healer  of  disease,  and  day  and  night  he  is 
called  upon  to  mitigate  the  ills  of  suffering  humanity,  and  to 
arrest  the  mission  of  the  Angel  of  Death. 

He  is  the  avenger  of  wrong,  and  while  guilt  trembles  as 
the  breath  of  his  eloquence  sweeps  over  a  listening  throng,  in- 
nocence lifts  her  fair  brow  and  blesses  the  vindicator  of  her 
injured  rights. 

He  is  the  minister  of  Almighty  God : 

1  Through  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out  its  thunders, 
And  through  him,  in  strains  as  sweet  as  angels  use, 
The  gospel  whispers  peace." 

Surely,  the  mind  engaged  in  such  high  pursuits,  fixed  on 
such  noble  aims,  must  have  its  best  and  greatest  powers  called 
into  constant  and  powerful  exercise.  It  has  not  time  to  in- 
dulge in  vanity,  or  frivolity,  or  inglorious  weakness.  Its 
sphere  is  too  vast,  its  objects  too  multiplied,  its  duties  too 
lofty  and  too  commanding. 

But  what  are  too  often  the  teachings  of  woman,  from  the 
cradle  of  infancy  to  the  bridal  altar  ?  What  motives  are  pre- 
sented as  the  springs  of  her  actions,  what  goal  pointed  out  as 
the  boundary  of  her  ambition  ?  Is  she  not  taught  to  shine 
and  glitter,  during  the  ephemeral  season  of  youth  and  beauty 
— to  devote  her  irredeemable  time  to  the  acquisition  of  the 
lightest  accomplishments — to  the  costly  adornment  of  her 
person — as  if  her  frame  were  immortal  rather  than  her  mind, 
her  body  imperishable  instead  of  her  soul  ?  Is  she  not  educated 
to  consider  the  admiration  of  the  other  sex  as  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  her  existence,  and  that  it  is  best  obtained  by  the 
possession  of  those  airy  graces,  which  fit  her  for  the  halls  of 
fashion,  instead  of  the  palaces  of  Eternity  ? 
V  "  If  you  chance  to  have  any  mental  superiority,"  says  a 
father,  addressing  his  daughters,  in  a  work  devoted  to  the 
great  principles  of  education,  "  be  careful  to  conceal  it  from 
the  other  sex,  for  Lian  seldom  forgives  the  intellectual  superi- 
ority of  woman." 

"  The  heart/'  says  a  celebrated  writer,  "  is  the  empire  of 
woman — to  man  belongs  the  kingdom  of  the  mind." 

Thus,  so  far  from  having  the  high  faculties  of  her  soul  called 
into  exercise,  like  man,  she  is  even  told  to  hold  down  the  aspi- 
rations of  her  intellect,  which  would  spurn  the  bondage  of 
vanity  and  folly,  rather  than  repel  and  alienate  the  being  whom 
she  was  created  to  charm.  With  such  a  different  system  of 


268  THE   SEX   OF    THE   SOUL. 

education,  it  is  impossible  to  measure  out  the  exact  quantum 
of  mind  which  belongs  by  the  right  of  nature  to  either  sex. 
It  is  in  vain  to  bring  it  down  to  the  strict  rules  of  mathema- 
tical science.  Mind,  we  verily  believe,  is  of  no  sex.  It  is 
the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty,  the  burning  breath  of  incar- 
nate Deity. 

Mind  is  strengthened  by  use.  The  finest  steel  wears  away 
in  time,  under  the  hand  of  the  artist,  but  mind  is  indestruct- 
ible and  defies  the  laws  that  govern  material  substances.  It 
is  inexhaustible.  The  more  you  draw  from  the  fountain,  the 
deeper  and  purer  are  the  waters.  Within  its  lowest  deep, 
there  is  a  deep  still  lower,  which  no  sounding  line  of  thought 
has  ever  fathomed.  It  is  elastic,  expansive,  like  the  air  we 
breathe.  Confine  it,  in  too  narrow  a  compass,  it  loses  its  life- 
giving,  life-sustaining  principle.  Remove  the  pressure,  it 
rises  above  the  loftiest  mountains,  and  flies  beyond  the  farthest 
seas. 

Is  not  the  mind  of  woman  bounded  by  education,  and  com- 
pressed by  circumstances  ?  Let  her  overstep  these  limits,  and 
see  of  what  she  is  capable. 

Catharine  of  Russia,  the  second  imperial  Catharine,  whose 
overmastering  ambition  crushed  every  obstacle  that  opposed 
her  path  to  absolute  dominion,  completed  a  work,  which  even 
Peter  the  Great  had  omitted  in  the  scale  of  his  mighty  opera- 
tions. It  was  a  woman's  hand  which  formed  and  presented  a 
code  of  laws  for  the  government  of  that  immense  Empire — 
laws  celebrated  for  their  wisdom  and  justice,  and  preserved  in 
a  golden  vase,  in  the  Imperial  Academy  at  Petersburgh. 
While  her  weak,  degraded  husband  remained  plunged  in  in- 
glorious excesses,  this  modern  Semiramis  held  the  reins  of 
government  with  a  firm,  unshrinking  hand,  and  devoted  all 
her  energies  to  her  own  aggrandizement  and  the  glory  of  the 
nation.  We  speak  not  of  the  crimes  that  blackened,  the  shame 
that  crimsoned,  her  character.  The  question  is  the  intellectual 
power,  not  the  moral  purity  of  the  sex :  t  >  the  last,  the  very 
name  of  Catharine  affixed  a  stain,  which  all  the  icy  waters  of 
the  northern  seas  could  never  efface. 

Woman  was  not  born  to  be  a  warrior.  But  when  has  manly 
valour  wrought  more  wonderous  deeds,  than  were  achieved  by 
Boadicea,  Queen  of  ancient  Britain  ?  Whether  we  see  her 
standing  on  an  elevated  ground,  in  full  view  of  her  oppressed 
subjects,  animating  them  by  prospects  of  victory  and  ven- 
geance, leaning  on  her  spear,  her  long  hair  streaming  like  a 


THE   SEX  OP  THE   SOUL.  269 

war  banner  on  the  gale,  or  driving  her  triumphal  chariot  over 
the  bodies  of  the  slain,  we  recognise  the  same  warrior  spirit, 
that  directs  the  whirlwind  and  rules  the  storm  of  destiny. 

Nature  never  formed  woman  for  the  rude  scenes  of  political 
strife,  but  where  in  the  bloody  records  of  the  French  llevolu- 
tion  is  there  a  name  more  illustrious  than  the  undaunted 
Roland,  who  stood  boldly  at  her  husband's  side,  avowing  and 
sustaining  his  sentiments  at  the  hazard  of  her  life,  and  when 
that  life  was  forfeited,  willingly  poured  out  her  blood  at  the 
shrine  of  that  Liberty  where  she  had  worshipped  with  more 
than  Eastern  idolatry  ? 

Woman  was  not  formed  to  be  the  defender  of  the  strong, 
yet  how  often  has  her  bosom  been  the  shield  of  him,  who  is 
called  her  guardian  and  her  lord  ?  The  forests  of  America  are 
hallowed  by  the  memory  of  Pocohontas,  who  sheltered  in  her 
arms  the  gallant  Smith,  and  confronted  the  death-blow  that 
was  destined  to  lay  him  low. 

The  mind  of  woman  is  thought  incapable  of  grasping  the 
mighty  volume  of  the  abstract  sciences.  Among  those  who 
might  be  cited  as  illustrious  contradictions  to  this  remark,  the 
name  of  Gabrielle  de  Chatelet  is  presented  to  the  memory. 
She  was  the  fellow-student  of  Voltaire,  and  travelled  with  him 
through  the  sublime  mazes  of  philosophy,  "  unwound  the 
eternal  dances  of  the  sky,"  and  wrote  her  name  among  the 
stars,  in  characters  of  light,  by  the  side  of  a  Newton  and  a 
Leibnitz.  She  studied  the  works  of  Newton,  which  are  written 
in  Latin,  "  and  the  study  of  an  abstract  science  in  a  dead 
language,"  says  her  biographer,  "  requires  no  common  powers 
of  mind." 

We  have  brought  forward  these  few  examples  to  prove  the 
mental  capabilities  of  woman,  but  we  would  not  alter  the 
course  marked  out  by  Him,  who  directs  the  planets  in  their 
brilliant  paths,  and  preserves  the  eternal  harmony  of  the  spheres. 
"There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the 
moon,"  but  they  are  both  glorious,  and  both  derive  their  glory 
from  the  exhaustless  fountain  of  uncreated  light.  Were  wo- 
man to  leave  her  own,  for  man's  more  sun-like  sphere,  what 
account  can  she  render  of  her  own  neglected  duties,  her  own 
deserted  orbit  ?  It  is  her  hand  which  God  appointed  to  trace 
the  first  characters  on  man's  unwritten  mind,  and  woe  be  to 
her,  if  there  be  imprinted  there,  aught  that  "  is  not  lovely, 
venerable,  or  of  good  report,"  aught  that  angels  may  not  read, 
or  the  eye  of  Infinite  Purity  survey. 


270  THE   SEX   OF   THE   SOUL. 

The  pilgrim,  weary  and  panting  beneath  the  rays  of  a  sultry 
sun,  seats  himself  under  the  shade  of  a  majestic  oak  and  re- 
joices in  the  shelter  of  its  spreading  branches,  emblem  of  the 
strength  of  man.  The  soft  gale  refreshes  his  fervid  brow,  and 
he  drinks  of  the  dew  from  the  flower-cup  that  blooms  protected 
by  that  mighty  tree.  The  gale  and  the  dew  are  emblems  of 
the  gentleness  and  tenderness  of  woman.  Yet  in  that  gale 
and  dew  are  the  elements  of  the  tempest  and  the  ocean,  of 
grandeur  and  power.  But  the  strong  wind  and  the  beating 
wave  would  oppress  and  endanger  the  weary  pilgrim,  instead 
of  refreshing  and  restoring  him. 

When  the  undeluged  earth  lay  cold  and  still  dripping  from 
its  awful  baptism,  God  sent  forth  a  wind  to  dry  its  surface  and 
prepare  it  for  a  new  vegetation.  God  sends  forth  his  own 
missionaries,  and  blessed  are  those  who  perform  the  work  al- 
lotted them  by  the  Omniscient  Taskmaster.  The  pilgrim  rises 
and  pursues  his  solitary  way,  blessing  God  for  the  shadow  of 
the  mighty  oak,  for  the  coolness  of  the  gale  and  the  sweet 
falling  of  the  dew.  They  are  all  the  missionaries  of  Heaven. 

But  the  robber  lurks  in  the  solitary  way,  and  tLe  hand  of 
violence  is  lifted  against  his  life.  The  arm  of  the  strong  and 
the  brave  comes  between  him  and  destruction,  and  the  wounded 
but  protected  is  borne  to  the  home  of  his  preserver.  There 
the  gentle  hand  of  woman  binds  up  his  wounds,  her  mild 
voice  whispers  comfort  in  his  ear,  and  her  soft  steps  linger 
around  his  couch. 

"  Oh  !  how  beautiful,"  exclaims  the  pilgrim,  "  is  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  works  of  Providence.  The  same  power  that 
spread  out  the  shadowing  branches  of  the  forest  tree,  gave  to 
man  the  arm  of  strength  to  strike  down  the  oppressor  in  his 
pride ;  and  the  same  mercy  that  filled  with  dew  the  chalice  of 
the  forest  flower,  created  woman  with  the  pitying  soul  and 
the  healing  hand,  to  bind  up  the  wounds  of  sorrow  and  of 
sin,  and  to  smooth  the  path  of  the  way-faring  man  through 
the  wilderness  of  life." 

Is  not  the  way-faring  man  the  emblem  of  him  who  is  going 
on  in  his  pilgrimage  through  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  and 
may  we  not  exclaim  with  him — "  Oh  !  bow  beautiful  and  har- 
monious is  the  arrangement  of  the  works  of  Providence  ?" 


A  TRIP  TO  THE   BAY. 


LETTER  I. 

STEAMER  WTNNTON,  April  10,  1852. 

THE  bell  is  rung ;  the  plunging,  heavy  sound  of  the  engine 
is  heard  in  the  water ;  the  boat  begins  to  thrill  and  shiver 
like  the  hearts  of  parting  friends,  then,  gliding  out  into  the 
river,  dashes  the  spray  from  its  paddle-wheels;  white  hand- 
kerchiefs are  seen  waving  from  the  shore ;  the  sunbeams  are 
reflected  from  faces  turning  with  farewell  glances  toward  the 
receding  boat;  then  the  sunbeams  fade,  the  shadow  steals 
over  them,  and  the  white  gleam  of  the  waving  handkerchiefs 
disappears,  like  the  wing  of  a  bird,  cutting  the  sky.  Farewell 
to  Columbus,  Queen  of  the  rushing  Chattahoochee, — home  of 
warm,  generous  hearts,  of  true  and  noble  spirits.  Strange 
paradox  !  we  are  leaving  thee  behind  us,  and  yet  bearing  thee 
away  with  us,  an  ever  present  and  beloved  companion.  Thou 
mayst  be  invisible  to  others,  but  thy  image  will  ever  rise  before 
our  mental  vision. 

With  immortality  of  memory  fraught, 
Space  cannot  fetter  the  unshackled  will ; 
High  over  forest,  river,  valley,  still 

Shall  soar  the  free,  untiring  wings  of  thought. 

Beautiful  are  the  banks  of  the  Chattahoochee,  clothed  it 
their  vernal  garniture.  The  high,  gray  bluffs,  crowned  with 
emerald  diadems,  with  mantles  of  vine-work  sweeping  in  the 
breeze, — the  luxuriant  clusters  of  ivy,  giving  here  and  there 
a  bright,  delicate  glow  to  the  dark  green  shrubbery, — the 
scarlet  woodbine,  twining  its  blossoms  of  fire  round  the  gray 
old  trunk  of  some  blasted  tree, — all  flashed  on  the  eye,  as  we 
hurried  along,  making  us  wish  we  had  arms  of  India-rubber, 


272  A  TRIP   TO   THE  BAY. 

that  they  might  be  stretched  to  the  shore,  and  gather  the  wild 
flowers  that  greeted  us  so  lovingly  with  their  fragrant  breath. 
The  magnolia,  fair  queen  of  blossom  trees,  peeped  through  the 
dense  foliage,  with  its  waxen  white  petals,  and  loaded  the 
river-breeze  with  its  rich,  oppressive  odours. 

At  night,  when  the  boat  stopped  for  a  freightage  of  cotton, 
we  sat  on  the  boiler  deck,  and  watched  the  massy  bales  as 
they  came  tumbling  down  the  steep  bank,  like  so  many  huge 
elephants  without  their  trunks.  The  scene  was  wild  and  pic- 
turesque. A  lantern  of  light-wood,  fastened  by  a  rod  to  the 
side  of  the  boat,  but  appearing  as  if  suspended  from  the  over- 
hanging pine  boughs,  threw  a  red,  diffusive  glare  on  the  black 
faces  and  scarlet-red  jackets  of  the  negroes,  who  were  escorting 
the  cotton  elephants  down  the  banks,  over  the  planks,  and  into 
the  vessel,  with  a  roll  and  a  bound  that  made  it  pulsate  and 
quake  to  its  heart's  core.  It  was  astonishing  to  see  with  what 
mathematical  precision  all  this  was  done,  in  the  midst  of  the 
greatest  apparent  recklessness  of  motion,  and  disregard  of  dis- 
tance and  directness.  Every  bale  leaped  over  the  planks  and 
sprang  into  its  appointed  place,  as  if  anxious  to  make  way  fur 
its  successor,  which  was  already  tearing  through  the  low  boughs 
and  raking  over  the  ground,  with  another  and  another  just 
above  it.  It  was  not  till  we  missed  the  lurid  reflection  of  the 
torch-light  on  the  water,  that  we  joined  the  party  on  the  stern- 
deck,  where  sweet  female  voices,  accompanied  by  the  soft  thrill 
of  the  guitar,  floated  over  the  dark  river,  and  echoed  from  the 
bluffs,  now  scarcely  discoverable  through  the  moonless  night. 
An  occasional  star  flashed  through  the  black  smoke-wreath 
coiling  overhead,  as  if  listening  to  the  music  warbling  below. 

Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the  little  cascades  which 
gush  out  from  the  rocky  bluffs  so  suddenly  and  so  mirthfully, 
like  joyous  children  rushing  to  see  a  pageant  sweeping  by. 
There  is  one  called  the  Roaring  Sprint/,  that,  like  a  church 
chi>ir,  sings  behind  a  curtain.  The  curtain  is  made  of  green 
leaves,  all  lace-work;  and  the  water-fall  glances  its  silver- 
bright  eyes  at  the  traveller,  as  it  sings  away,  and  the  words  of 
its  song  have  a  chorus  that  sounds  like 

"  Cheerily  0,  cheerily  0 !" 

Certainly,  the  party  on  board  was  not  composed  of  ice  or 
stone,  incapable  of  perceiving  or  appreciating  the  beauties  of 
nature.  At  every  cascade  that  bounded  forward  to  look  at  us, 
overy  cluster  of  wild  flowers  that  sent  out  its  perfume  ou  the 


A   TRIP   TO   THE   BAY.  273 

gale,  every  wild  duck  that  skimmed  over  the  water,  or  dived 
sportively  beneath  it,  ejaculations  of  admiration  would  pass 
from  lip  to  lip,  and  glances  of  rapture  flash  from  eye  to  eye. 
The  gallant  captain,  too,  who  knows  by  heart  every  inch  of 
Chattahoochee's  banks,  would  not  suffer  any  object  of  interest 
to  pass  without  directing  to  it  the  attention  of  the  admiring 
traveller.  We  wish  we  could  remember  the  Indian  names  he 
told  us,  for  they  were  so  sweet  and  musical. 

We  passed  one  place,  near  Ochesee,  which  looked  like 
storied  ground.  It  seemed  to  be  an  Indian  mound,  on  which 
were  the  ruins  of  an  old  hut,  and  a  grave.  But  it  was  the 
grave  of  a  white  man,  once  the  solitary  dweller  of  that  ruined 
hut.  There  was  a  wild-rose  bush  clambering  round  the  old 
frame-work,  casting  a  gleam  of  bloom  and  beauty  on  its  deso- 
lation. That  grave  !  how  sad  and  lone  it  looked  by  the  way- 
side !  how  mournfully  the  water  gurgled  against  the  burial- 
mound  !  and  how  imagination  wrote  the  history  of  the  hermit 
dead !  Perhaps  all  romance  would  die  away  in  the  presence 
of  reality,  as  it  too  often  does. 

The  last  bluff  that  beautifies  the  banks  before  you  reach  the 
Bay  is  called  the  Old  Woman's  Bluff : — why,  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine,  for  it  is  very  beautiful  and  majestic.  No !  we  are 
mistaken;  the  beautiful  and  majestic  bluff  is  named  Alum 
Bluff,  and  the  one  bearing  the  venerable  feminine  appellation 
is  a  low,  insignificant  kind  of  ledge,  that  goes  shuffling  into 
the  level  shore.  As  the  shore  flattens,  the  river  widens,  till 
it  gradually  swells  into  the  beautiful  glassy  bay  on  which 
Apalachicola  stands. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  the  town  to  gratify 
the  eye  of  the  stranger.  It  never  could  have  possessed  much 
beauty;  and  the  terrible  gale  of  last  August  has  given  it  a 
worn  and  somewhat  dilapidated  appearance.  But  as  you  walk 
into  the  town,  and  see  some  of  the  neat  and  tasteful  habitations, 
and  continue  your  course  on  the  neat  walk,  made  of  planks, 
raised  above  the  white,  sparkling  sand  along  the  beach,  catch- 
ing glimpses  all  the  time  of  the  blue,  serene  water,  the  charm 
of  repose  is  on  you,  and  you  forget  the  dry,  business  look 
which  first  greeted  you.  The  hospitality  and  refinement  of 
the  Apalachicolians  are  proverbial;  and,  short  as  was  our 
stay,  we  had  abundant  opportunity  of  proving  the  justice  of 
the  reputation.  One  might  have  imagined  the  little  cabin  of 
our  boat  a  fashionable  drawing-room,  from  the  elegant  guests 
that  assembled  there. 


274  A  TRIP  TO   THE  BAY. 

The  next  day,  several  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  from  the 
Bay  accompanied  our  party  to  East  Pass,  distant  about  thirty 
miles,  where  the  British  vessels  lie  at  anchor,  ready  to  dis- 
charge their  freight.  It  was  a  bright,  blue,  cloudless  morning ; 
and  a  waveless  calm  slept  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  We, 
who  had  anticipated  being  tossed  on  the  foaming  billows,  as 
we  approached  the  great  Gulf,  were  sadly  disappointed  at  the 
deep  tranquillity  of  the  sea.  We  wanted  to  feel  the  majesty 
of  the  sea-green  element.  We  wanted  to  feel  the  union  of 
great  strength  with  sublime  beauty.  But  the  sea-winds  lay 
with  their  banners  furled,  and  the  Bay  smiled  in  one  broad, 
dazzling  pomp  of  sunlight.  A  gay,  happy  party  filled  a  barge, 
and  departed  for  a  sandy  island,  that  looked,  in  the  distance, 
like  glistening  silver, — the  Island  of  St.  John, — washed  by 
the  mingling  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  the  Bay  of 
Apalachicola.  But  alas !  for  those  who  were  foolish  enough 
to  be  made  sick  by  gazing  on  the  unrippling  surface  of  the 
deep ;  they  were  forced  to  follow  with  wistful  eyes  the  grace- 
fully-receding boat  through  the  green  jalousies  of  their  state- 
room, consoling  themselves  with  the  thought  that  some  kind 
voice  might  whisper  to  the  listening  ear,  "  I  wish  they  were 
here." 

Away,  away,  like  a  thing  of  life,  the  little  boat  flew  over 
the  smooth,  glassy  water,  and  the  blue  veils  began  to  flutter, 
and  a  soft  yet  exhilarating  breeze  curled  the  azure  face  of  the 
lower  heaven.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  party,  after  their 
return,  tell  of  their  walk  on  the  silver  sands  of  the  beach,  of 
the  stately,  black  pelicans,  that  looked  so  grand  and  Byronian, 
and  the  charming  conversations  that  waked  the  echoes  of  the 
lonely  isle. 

In  our  next  letter,  we  will  endeavour  to  describe  the  crew 
of  the  good  ship  Portland,  and  how  they  charmed  us  with 
their  jovial  songs,  while  heaving  their  cargo  into  our  rocking 
boat. 


LETTER  II. 

QUINCY,  April  16,  1852. 

SEATED  on  the  boiler-deck,  and  feeling  the  exhilarating 
influence  of  the  rising  sea-breeze,  we  watched  the  jolly  tars 


A   TRIP   TO   THE   BAY.  275 

of  the  Portland,  while  they  transferred  the  sacks  of  salt  with 
•which  the  ship  was  freighted  to  the  charge  of  the  Wynnton. 
One  would  imagine  this  must  be  a  very  uninteresting  process, 
but  music  can  lend  enchantment  to  any  scene — and  then  it 
was  performed  with  real  grace  and  spirit.  There  was  one 
man  who  seemed  to  direct  the  operations,  short  in  stature, 
with  a  broad,  fat,  good-natured  face,  who  occupied  a  central 
position,  and  pulled  a  rope  with  miyht  and  main.  He  wore 
a  white  hat,  and  his  white  shirt  sleeves  were  rolled  up  to  his 
elbows,  showing  scarlet  flannel  undersleeves.  The  sailors,  by 
two  and  two,  departing  from  him,  their  common  centre,  tugged 
at  their  ropes,  singing  some  wild  melody  with  growing  spirit, 
and  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  end  of  their  rope,  a 
huge  bag  of  salt  emerged  from  the  hull  of  the  ship,  then  was 
swung  by  one  man  to  receive  a  strong  impulse  from  another, 
to  pass  from  him  to  another,  who  stood  on  the  very  verge  of 
the  vessel,  and  unhooking  the  sack  from  the  noose  that  en- 
circled it,  gave  it  a  toss  on  the  inclined  plane,  on  which  it  slid 
down  into  the  boat.  This  continued  for  hours,  and  all  the 
time  they  kept  up  their  wild  minstrelsy,  and  all  the  time  we 
gazed  and  listened  with  unabated  interest,  while  the  fresh 
breeze  curled  the  water  and  blew  inspiringly  round  us.  As  the 
boat  departed,  the  sailors  gave  three  loud,  hearty  cheers,  to 
which  waving  handkerchiefs  responded,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  Apalachicola  appeared  in  sight,  illuminated  by  the 
cloudless  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

Another  delightful  evening  there,  and  homeicard  bound, 
the  Wynnton  went  on  its  course  rejoicing.  The  next  morn- 
ing there  were  clouds  and  heavy  falling  rains,  accompanied 
by  the  deep  bass  of  the  thunder  and  the  vivid  flash  of  the 
lightning.  But  bright  and  clear  was  the  social  spirit  within, 
and  music,  poetry,  and  sentiment  gave  wings  to  passing  hours. 
We  stopped  at  Ochesee,  in  "  thunder,  lightning,  and  in  rain." 
Ah  !  when  "  shall  we  all  meet  again  ?"  we  silently  asked,  as, 
after  bidding  adieu  to  the  delightful  party  which  had  accom- 
panied us  on  our  winding  way,  we  climbed  up  the  steep,  wet 
banks,  not  forgetting  the  magnolias  and  wild  flowers  which 
gallant  hands  had  gathered  from  the  fragrant  shores,  crossed 
a  broad,  grassy  plain,  and,  ascending  a  long  flight  of  steps  in 
front  of  Mr.  G.'s  mansion,  looked  back  towards  the  friends 
whose  figures  still  lingered  on  deck,  and  whose  countenances 
beamed  through  the  clouds  and  rain,  with  that  sunshine  of 
the  soul,  brighter  than  the  solar  rays.  We  looked  till  the 


276  A  TRIP  TO   THE   BAY. 

black  smoke  no  longer  darkened  the  sky — the  foaming  wake 
no  longer  divided  the  water. 

There  is  but  one  house  at  the  Ochesee  Landing,  owned  and 
occupied  by  Mr.  Gr. — one  of  the  most  industrious,  energetic, 
and  thriving  planters  of  Florida.  The  dwelling-house  is  lofty 
— raised  so  as  to  avoid  the  danger  arising  from  an  overflow- 
ing river — and  its  white  walls  look  down  comrnandingly  on 
the  beautiful  water-view  in  front.  The  negro  cabins  are  also 
white,  as  well  as  a  noble  gin-house  on  the  right  hand.  A 
rich,  grassy-green  carpet  covers  a  smooth  lawn,  stretching 
down  to  the  river  and  spreading  out  on  either  side  of  the 
building.  But  the  glory  of  the  place  consists  of  the  grand 
old  live-oaks,  that  stand  side  by  side,  gigantic  twins,  throwing 
their  mighty  shadows  far  and  wide,  and  extending  towards 
each  other  their  hundred  branching  arms.  What  a  history 
might  be  read  in  those  majestic  trees  !  Unchanging  as  the 
ocean  in  their  perennial  verdure,  they  have  witnessed  ten 
thousand  mutations,  themselves  unchanged,  and  may  witness 
ten  thousand  more. 

Hail,  prophets  of  nature — hail,  beacons  of  time — 
Proud  kings  of  the  forest,  ye're  reigning  sublime, 

'Mid  beauty,  luxuriance,  and  bloom  ; 
The  glories  of  nature  have  fled  since  your  birth — 
The  mighty  been  swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth 

And  the  sun  of  the  conqueror  gone  down. 

But  that  Power,  to  whom  nature  and  empires  have  bowed, 
Who  has  robbed  of  their  glory  the  mighty  and  proud, 

Will  prostrate  your  grandeur  in  dust ; 
That  power,  who  the  changes  of  nature  controls — 
Who  can  stay  the  dark  ocean  of  time  as  it  rolls — 

Eternal,  Almighty,  and  Just. 

As  the  ferry-boat  at  Aspalaga  was  out  of  order,  we  were 
compelled  to  cross  at  Chattahoochee,  adding  about  thirteen 
miles  to  the  distance  between  Ochesee  and  Quincy.  Nothing 
can  be  more  gorgeously  beautiful  than  the  scenery  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  which  we  followed  for  several  miles.  The 
foliage  of  the  trees  was  so  rich  and  luxuriant ;  such  wild, 
wanton  vines  clambered  round  the  trunks ;  the  swamp-flowers 
bloomed  with  such  superabundant  life  and  fragrance ;  and 
then  the  bright,  yellow  weed,  that  made  such  a  golden  carpet 
for  the  trees, — and  the  river  rolling  and  glistening,  and  softly 
murmuring  along  one  side,  with  its  sweet,  glad  smile  of  almost 


A  TRIP  TO   THE   BAY.  277 

human  loveliness;  oh!  it  was  magnificent — charming, — and, 
to  crown  the  whole,  just  over  a  gate  which  opened  into  a  rich 
plantation,  two  lofty  trees,  bending  down,  as  if  burdened  by 
their  weight  of  leaves,  interlaced  their  branches,  and  formed 
a  graceful  and  triumphal  arch  overhead. 

Near  the  ferry  at  Chattahoocb.ee  is  the  confluence  of  the 
Chattahoochee  and  the  Flint,  and  you  can  plainly  distinguish 
the  darker,  clearer  waters  of  the  latter,  as  they  mingle  with 
the  more  turbid  waves  of  the  former.  After  crossing  the 
river,  the  ride  through  the  pine  woods  is  lonely  and  monoto- 
nous, only  at  long  intervals  interrupted  by  signs  of  human 
inhabitancy.  At  every  step  the  ruins  of  the  tremendous 
August  gale  are  visible.  Les  cadavres  des  arbrcs,  as  Chateau- 
briand calls  them — corpses  of  trees,  of  gigantic  pine  trees,  lie 
piled  upon  each  other,  like  fallen  heroes  on  a  battle  plain — 
and  the  road  is  constantly  making  zigzag  freaks,  to  avoid 
desecrating  these  forest  remains. 

Just  as  the  twilight  shadows  were  beginning  to  steal  over 
the  woods,  we  entered  the  beautiful  and  oak-embowered  town 
of  Quincy.  We  had  been  told  that  the  summer  storm  had 
made  fearful  ravages  here,  but  in  the  dense  oaken  groves  and 
among  the  magnificent  shade  trees  which  adorn  and  embosom 
the  place,  we  look  in  vain  for  the  foot-prints  of  the  angel  of 
the  whirlwind.  We  can  see,  however,  many  proofs  of  its 
visitation.  Under  the  window  by  which  we  are  seated,  there 
is  an  orange  tree  nearly  twenty  feet  in  height.  The  topmost 
branches  are  all  blighted  and  leafless ;  only  the  lower  boughs 
retain  their  vitality.  All  the  orange  trees  here  are  blasted 
in  their  bloom,  and  the  cultivation  of  years  destroyed. 


THE  END. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      3 
CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

The  best  and  most  popular  in  the  world.     Ten  different  editions.     No 

Library  can  be  complete  without  a  Sett  of  these  Works. 

.Reprinted  from  the  Authors  last  Editions. 

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No  library,  either  public  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it 
a  complete  sett  of  the  works  of  this,  the  greatest  of  all  living  authors. 
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names. 

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PICKWICK  PAPERS,  Nine  New  Stories  by  the  Christmas 

DOMBEY  AND  SOX,  Fire.     Hard  Times.     Lizzie  Leigh. 

MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  The  Miner's  Daughters,  etc. 

BARNABY  RUDGE,  CHRISTMAS    STORIES.     Contain- 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,  ing— A     Christmas     Carol.        The 

SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ,"  Chimes.      Cricket   on   the  Hearth. 

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«        3     do.         Nicholas  Nickleby  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit 

"        4    do.        David  Copper-field,  Dombey  and  Son,  Christmas  Stories, 

and  Pictures  from  Italy. 

"  5  do.  Bleak  House,  and  Dickens'  New  Stories.  Containing 
—The  Seven  Poor  Travellers.  Nine  New  Stories 
by  the  Christmas  Fire.  Hard  Times.  Lizzie 
Leigh.  The  Miner's  Daughters,  and  Fortune 
Wildrod,  etc. 

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«  «  "  «          scarlet  cloth,  extra,  8  50 

«  «  «  «  library  sheep,  9  00 

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«  «  «  "  half  calf,  antique,  1*  00 

^f  Ultutrated  Edition  it  deteribed  on  next  page.  *8S^ 
" 


4      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
ILLUSTRATED  EDITION  OF  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

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BLEAK  HOUSE,        Price,  $1  50 
PICKWICK  PAPERS,  1  50 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,      1  50 
OLIVER  TWIST,  1  50 

SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ,"      1  50 
BARNABY  RUDGE,  1  50 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,     $1  50 


MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT, 
DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 
DOMBEY  AND  SON, 
CHRISTMAS  STORIES, 
DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES, 


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PETER  SIMPLE.  NAVAL  OFFICER. 

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THE  ORPHAN  NIECE.  THE  HEIRESS. 

KATE  WALSINGHAM.  PRINCE  AND  PEDLER. 

THE  POOR  COUSIN.  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ELLEN  WAREHAM.  THE  FRIGHT. 

THE  QUIET  HUSBAND.  NAN  DARRELL. 

WHO  SHALL  BE  HEIR?  THE  SQUIRE. 

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AGNES  SERLE.  THE  GRUMBLER.  50  cts. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      5 
MRS,  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE  JOYS  AND  SORROWS 
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gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

EOLINE ;  OR,  MAGNOLIA  VALE.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper 
cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

THE  BANISHED  SON;  and  other  Stories.  Complete  in  two  volumes, 
paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR.  Comp'ete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price 
One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BAG,  together  with  large  additions  to  it, 
written  by  Mrs.  Hentz,  prior  to  her  death,  and  never  before  published 
in  any  other  edition  of  this  or  any  other  work  than  this.  Complete  in 
two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

T,  S.  ARTHUR'S  WORKS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  are 
the  most  moral,  popular  and  entertaining  in  the  world.  There  are  no 
better  books  to  place  in  the  hands  of  the  young.  All  will  profit  by  them. 

YEAR  AFTER  MARRIAGE.          TRIAL  AND  TRIUMPH. 

THE  DIVORCED  WIFE.  THE  ORPHAN  CHILDREN. 

THE  BANKER'S  WIFE.  THE  DEBTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 

PRIDE  AND  PRUDENCE.  INSUBORDINATION. 

CECILIA  HOWARD.  LUCY  SANDFORD. 

MARY  MORETON.  AGNES,  or  the  Possessed. 

LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE.  THE  TWO  BRIDES. 

LOVE  IN  HIGH  LIFE.  THE  IRON  RULE. 

THE  TWO  MERCHANTS.  THE  OLD  ASTROLOGER. 

LADY  AT  HOME.  THE  SEAMSTRESS. 

%  .* 


6      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
CHARLES  LEVER'S  NOVELS. 

CHARLES  O'MALLEY,  the  Irish  Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  octavo  volume  of  324  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents;  or 
an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One 
Dollar. 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  GWYNNE.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  the  Union.  By 
Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  fine  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty 
cents ;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

JACK  HINTON,  the  Guardsman.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one 
large  octavo  volume  of  400  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents;  or  an  edition 
on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

TOM  BURKE  OF  OURS.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  large 
octavo  volume  of  300  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  on 
finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

A.RTHUR  O'LEARY.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in 
cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

KATE  O'DONOGHUE.  A  Tale  of  Ireland.  By  Charles  Lever.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition 
on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HORACE  TEMPLETON,  By  Charles  Lever.  This  is  Lever's  New 
Book.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents  ;  or 
an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HARRY  LORREQUER.  By  Charles  Lever,  author  of  the  above  seven 
works.  Complete  in  one  octavo  volume  of  402  pages.  Price  Fifty 
cents;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price 
One  Dollar. 

VALENTINE  VOX.— LIFE  AND   ADVENTURES   OF  VALENTINE 
;    VOX,  the    Ventriloquist.      By  Henry  Cockton.      One    of   the   most 

humorous  books  ever  published.     Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  on 

finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth.     Price  One  Dollar. 
PERCY  EFFINGHAM.     By  Henry  Cockton,  author  of  "  Valentine  Vox, 

the  Ventriloquist."     One  large  octavo  volume.    Price  50  cents. 
TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR.     By  Samuel  C.  Warren.     With  Portraits 

of  Snap,  Quirk,  Gammon,  and  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  Esq.     Two  large 

octavo  vols.,  of  547  pages.     Price  One  Dollar;  or  an  edition  on  finer 

paper,  bound  in  cloth,  $1,50. 

CHARLES  J.  PETERSON'S  WORKS. 

KATE  AYLESFORD.  A  story  of  the  Refugees.  One  of  the  most  popu- 
lar books  ever  printed.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  gilt.  Price  $1  25. 

CRUISING  IN  THE  LAST  WAR.     A  Naval  Story  ol  the  War  of  1812. 

First  and  Second  Series.     Being  the  complete  work,  unabridged.    By 

Charles  J.  Peterson.     228  octavo  pages.     Price  50  cents. 
GRACE  DUDLEY;   OR,  ARNOLD    AT  SARATOGA.     By   Charles   J. 

Peterson.     Illustrated.     Price  25  cents. 
THE  VALLEY  FARM;  OR,   the  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  OR. 

PHAN.     A  companion  to  Jane  Eyre.     Price  25  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      7 
EUGENE  SUE'S  NOVELS. 

THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS;  AND  GEROLSTEIN,  the  Sequel  to  it. 
By  Eugene  Sue,  author  of  the  "Wandering  Jew,"  and  the  greatest 
work  ever  written.  With  illustrations.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes 
octavo.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  ILLUSTRATED  WANDERING  JEW.  By  Eugene  Sue.  With 
87  large  illustrations.  Two  large  octavo  volumes.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  FEMALE  BLUEBEARD;  or,  the  Woman  with  many  Husbands 
By  Eugene  Sue.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

FIRST  LOVE.  A  Story  of  the  Heart.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Price  Twenty. 
five  cents. 

WOMAN'S  LOVE.  A  Novel.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Illustrated.  Price 
Twenty-five  cents. 

MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN.  A  Tale  of  the  Sea.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Price 
Twenty-five  cents. 

RAOUL  DE  SURVILLE;  or,  the  Times  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  1810. 
Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

SIR  E.  L.  BULWER'S  NOVELS. 

FALKLAND.     A  Novel.     By  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer,  author  of  "  The  Roue," 

"  Oxonians,"  etc.     One  volume,  octavo.     Price  25  cents. 
THE  ROUE;  OR  THE  HAZARDS  OF  WOMEN.     Price  25  cents. 
THE  OXONIANS.     A  Sequel  to  the  Roue.     Price  25  cents. 
CALDERON,  THE  COURTIER.     By  Bulwer.     Price  12i  cents. 

MRS.  GREY'S  NOVELS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  are 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each  forms  one  large  octavo  volume, 
complete  in  itself,  neatly  bound  in  a  strong  paper  cover. 

DUKE  AND  THE  COUSIN.  THE  YOUNG  PRIMA  DONNA. 

GIPSY'S  DAUGHTER.  THE  OLD  DOWER  HOUSE. 

BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY.  HYACINTHE. 

SYBIL  LENNARD.  ALICE  SEYMOUR. 

THE  LITTLE  WIFE.  HARRY  MONK. 

MANOEUVRING  MOTHER.  MARY  SE/»  HAM.    250   pages. 
LENA    CAMERON;    or,   the   Four  Price  50  cents. 

Sisters.  PASSION  AND  PRINCIPLE 
THE  BARONET'S  DAUGHTERS.  200  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

GEORGE  W.  M.  REYNOLD'S  WORKS. 

THE  NECROMANCER.     A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  the  Eighth. 

By  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds.     One  large  volume.     Price  75  cents. 
THE  PARRICIDE ;  OR,  THE  YOUTH'S   CAREER  IN  CRIME.     By 

G.  W.  M.  Reynolds.     Full  of  beautiful  illustrations.     Price  50  cents. 
LIFE  IN  PARIS:  OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ALFRED  DE  ROSANN 

IN  THE  METROPOLIS  OF  FRANCE.     By  G.  W.  M.  Reynold*. 

Full  of  Engravings.     Price  50  cents. 


8      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
AINSWORTH'S  WORKS, 

JACK  SHEPPARD.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
JACK  SHEPPARD,  the  most  noted  burglar,  robber,  and  jail  breaker, 
that  ever  lived.  Embellished  with  Thirty-nine,  full  page,  spirited 
Illustrations,  designed  and  engraved  in  the  finest  style  of  art,  by 
George  Cruikshank,  Esq.,  of  London.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

ILLUSTRATED  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  With  100  splendid  engravings. 
This  is  beyond  all  doubt  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  ever 
published  in  the  known  world,  and  can  be  read  and  re-read  with 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  by  everybody.  We  advise  all  persons  to 
get  it  and  read  it.  Two  volumes,  octavo.  Price  One  Dollar. 

PICTORIAL  LIFE   AND   ADVENTURES    OF    GUY   FAWKES,  Th« 

Chief  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  The  Bloody  Tower,  etc.    Illustrated 

By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth.     200  pages.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
THE    STAR  CHAMBER.     An  Historical  Romance.     By  W.  Harrison 

Ainsworth.     With  17  large  full  page  illustrations.     Price  50  cents. 
THE  PICTORIAL  OLD  ST.  PAUL'S.     By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth. 

Full  of  Illustrations.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
MYSTERIES   OF  THE   COURT    OF   QUEEN  ANNE.      By  William 

Harrison  Ainsworth.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
MYSTERIES  OF  THE  COURT  OF  THE  STUARTS.     By  Ainsworth. 

Being  one  of  the  most  interesting  Historical  Romances  ever  written. 

One  large  volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
DICK   TURPIN.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE    OF    DICK   TURPIN,  the 

Highwayman,  Burglar,  Murderer,  etc.     Price  Twenty-five  cents. 
HKNRY  THOMAS.— LIFE  OF  HARRY  THOMAS,  the  Western  Burglar 

and  Murderer.     Full  of  Engravings.     Price  Twenty-five  cents. 
DKSPERADOES.— ILLUSTRATED   LIFE    AND   ADVENTURES  OP 

THE  DESPERADOES  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD.    Full  of  engravings. 

Price  Twenty-five  cents. 
NJSON    DE  L'ENCLOS.— LIFE    AND   ADVENTURES  OF  NINON 

DE  L'ENCLOS,  with  her  Letters  on  Love,  Courtship  and  Marriage. 

Illustrated.     Price  Twenty-five  cents. 
THE  PICTORIAL  NEWGATE  CALENDAR ;  or  the  Chronicles  of  Crime. 

Beautifully  illustrated  with  Fifteen  Engravings.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
PICTORIAL   LIFE   AND    ADVENTURES    OF   DAVY    CROCKETT. 

Written  by  himself.     Beautifully  illustrated.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  ARTHUR  SPRING,  the  murderer  of 

Mrs.  Ellen  Lynch  and  Mrs.  Honora  Shaw,  with  a  complete  history  of 

his  life  and  misdeeds,  from  the  time  of  his  birth  until  he  was  hung. 

Illustrated  with  portraits.     Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

JACK  ADAMS.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  JACK 
ADAMS;  the  celebrated  Sailor  and  Mutineer.  By  Captain  Chamier, 
author  of  "  The  Spitfire."  Full  of  illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

GRACE  O'MALLEY.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OP 
GRACE  O'MALLEY.  By  William  H.  Maxwell,  author  of  "  Wild 
Sports  in  the  West."  Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  PIRATE'S  SON.  A  Sea  Novel  of  great  interest  Full  of  beautiful 
illustration e.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      9 
ALEXANDRE  DUMAS'  WORKS. 

THE  IRON  MASK,  OR  THE  FEATS  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
EAOULB  DE  BRAGELONNE.  Being  the  conclusion  of  "The 
Three  Guardsmen,"  "  Twenty  Years  After,"  and  •'  Bragelonne."  By 
Alexandre  Dumas.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  of  420  octavo 
pages,  with  beautifully  Illustrated  Covers,  Portraits,  aud  Eugravino-s. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

LOUISE  LA  VALLIERE;  OR  THE  SECOND  SERIES  AND  FINAL 
END  OF  THE  IRON  MASK.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  This  work 
is  the  final  end  of  ''The  Three  Guardsmen,"  "  Twenty  Years  After," 
"  Bragelonne,"  and  "The  Iron  Mask,"  and  is  of  far  more  interesting 
and  absorbing  interest,  than  any  of  its  predecessors.  Complete  in 
two  large  octavo  volumes  of  over  400  pages,  printed  on  the  best  of 
paper,  beautifully  illustrated.  It  also  contains  correct  Portraits  of 
"  Louise  La  Valliere,"  and  "  The  Hero  of  the  Iron  Mask."  Price  One 
Dollar. 

THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN;  OR  THE  SECRET  HISTORY  OF 
LOUIS  THE  FIFTEENTH.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  It  is  beautifully 
embellished  with  thirty  engravings,  which  illustrate  the  principal 
scenes  and  characters  of  the  different  heroines  throughout  the  work. 
Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  QUEEN'S  NECKLACE  :  OR  THE  SECRET  HISTORY  OF  THK 
COURT  OF  LOUIS  THE  SIXTEENTH.  A  Sequel  to  the  Memoirs 
of  a  Physician.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  It  is  beautifully  illustrated 
with  portraits  of  the  heroines  of  the  work.  Complete  in  two  larbo 
octavo  volumes  of  over  400  pages.  Price  One  Dollar. 

SIX  YEARS  LATER;  OR  THE  TAKING  OF  THE  BASTILE.  By 
Alexandre  Durnas.  Being  the  continuation  of  "The  Queen's  Neck- 
lace; or  the  Secret  History  of  the  Court  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth,"  and 
"Memoirs  of  a  Physician."  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume. 
Price  Seventy-five  cents. 

COUNTESS  DE  CHARNY;  OR  THE  FALL  OF  THE  FRENCH 
MONARCHY.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  This  work  is  the  final  con- 
clusion of  the  "Memoirs  of  a  Physician,"  "The  Queen's  Necklace," 
and  "  Six  Years  Later,  or  Taking  of  the  Bastile."  All  persons  who 
have  not  read  Dumas  in  this,  his  greatest  and  most  instructive  pro- 
duction, should  begin  at  once,  and  no  pleasure  will  bo  found  so 
agreeable,  and  nothing  in  novel  form  so  useful  and  absorbing.  Com- 
plete in  two  volumes,  beautifully  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

DIANA  OF  MERIDOR;  THE  LADY  OF  MONSOREAU;  or  France  in 
the  Sixteenth  Century.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  An  Historical  Ro- 
mance. Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes  of  538  pages,  witfc 
numerous  illustrative  engravings.  Price  One  Dollar. 

ISABEL  OF  BAVARIA ;  or  the  Chronicles  of  France  for  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Sixth.  Complete  in  one  fine  octavo  volume  of  211  pages, 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

EDMOND  DANTES.  Being  the  sequel  to  Dumas'  celebrated  novel  of 
the  Count  of  Monte  Cristo.  With  elegant  illustrations.  Complete  in 
one  large  octavo  volume  of  over  200  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  CORSICAN  BROTHERS.  This  work  has  already  been  dramatized, 
and  is  now  played  in  all  the  theatres  of  Europe  and  in  this  country, 
and  it  is  exciting  an  extraordinary  interest.  Price  Twenty-five  cent*. 


10     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
ALEXANDRE  DUMAS'  WORKS. 

SKETCHES  IN  FRANCE.  By  Alexandra  Dumas.  It  is  as  good  a 
book  as  Thackeray's  Sketches  in  Ireland.  Dumas  never  wrote  a 
better  book.  It  is  the  most  delightful  book  of  the  season.  Price 
Fifty  cents. 

6ENEVIEVE,  OR  THE  CHEVALIER  OF  THE  MAISON  ROUGE. 
By  Alexandre  Dumas.  An  Historical  Romance  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution. Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume  of  over  200  pages, 
with  numerous  illustrative  engravings.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

GEORGE  LIPPARD'S  WORKS. 

WASHINGTON  AND  HIS  GENERALS;  or,  Legends  of  the  American 
Revolution.  Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes  of  638  pages, 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  QUAKER  CITY;  or,  the  Monks  of  Monk  Hall.  A  Romance  of 
Philadelphia  Life,  Mystery  and  Crime.  Illustrated  with  numerous 
Engravings.  Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes  of  500  pages. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  LADTE  OF  ALBARONE;  or,  the  Poison  Goblet  A  Romance  of 
the  Dark  Ages.  Lippard's  Last  Work,  and  never  before  published. 
Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Seventy-five  cents. 

PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  the  Monk  of  Wissahiekon.  A  Romance  of  the 
Revolution.  Illustrated  with  numerous  engravings.  Complete  in 
two  large  octavo  volumes,  of  nearly  600  pages.  Price  One  Dollar. 

BLANCHE  OF  BRANDYWINE;  or,  September  the  Eleventh,  1777.  A 
Romance  of  the  Poetry,  Legends,  and  History  of  the  Battle  of  Brandy- 
wine.  It  makes  a  large  octavo  volume  of  350  pages,  printed  on  the 
finest  white  paper.  Price  Seventy-five  cents, 

LEGENDS  OF  MEXICO;  or,  Battles  of  General  Zachary  Taylor,  late 
President  of  the  United  States.  Complete  in  one  octavo  volume  of 
128  pages.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  NAZARENE;  or,  the  Last  of  the  Washington.  A  Revelation  of 
Philadelphia,  New  York,  and  Washington,  in  the  year  1844.  Coui- 
plete  in  one  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

B.  DISRAELI'S  NOVELS. 

VIVIAN  GREY.  By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P.  Complete  in  one  large  ocUvo 
volume  of  225  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  YOUNG  DUKE ;  or  the  younger  days  of  George  the  Fourth.  By 
B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P.  One  octavo  volume.  Price  Thirty-eight  cents. 

VENETIA;  or,  Lord  Byron  and  his  Daughter.  By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P. 
Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

HENRIETTA  TEMPLE.  A  Love  Story.  By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

CONTARINA  FLEMING.     An  Autobiography.     By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P. 

One  volume,  octavo.     Price  Thirty-eight  cents. 
MIRIAM  ALROY.    A  Romance  of  the  Twelfth  Century.   By  B.  D'Israeli, 

M.  P.     One  volume  octavo.     Price  Thirty-eight  ce'nts. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     11 
EMERSON  BENNETT'S  WORKS, 

CLARA  MORELAND.  This  is  a  powerfully  written  romance.  The 
characters  are  boldly  drawn,  the  plot  striking,  the  incidents  rcplcto 
with  thrilling  interest,  and  the  language  and  descriptions  natural  and 
graphic,  as  are  all  of  Mr.  Bennett's  Works.  33ti  pages.  Price  50 
cents  in  paper  cover,  or  One  Dollar  in  cloth,  gilt. 

VIOLA;  OR,  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  FAR  SOUTH-WEST.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  volume.  Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents 
in  cloth,  gilt. 

THE  FORGED  WILL.  Complete  in  one  large  volume,  of  over  300 
pages,  paper  cover,  price  50  cents ;  or  bound  in  cloth,  gilt,  price  $1  00. 

KATE  CLARENDON  ;  OR,  NECROMANCY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 
Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth,  gilt. 

BRIDE    OF   THE    WILDERNESS.     Complete   in    one    large    volume. 

Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth,  gilt. 
THE   PIONEER'S  DAUGHTER;  and  THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTESS. 

By  Emerson  Bennett.     Price  50  cents. 
HEIRESS    OF  BELLEFONTE ;  and  WALDE-WARREN.     A   Tale  of 

Circumstantial  Evidence.     By  Emerson  Bennett.     Price  50  cents. 

ELLEN  NORBURY;  OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  AN  ORPHAN. 
Complete  in  one  large  volume,  price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  in 
cloth  gilt,  $1  00. 

MISS  LESLIE'S  NEW  COOK  BOOK. 

MISS  LESLIE'S  NEW  RECEIPTS  FOR  COOKING.  Comprising  new 
and  approved  methods  of  preparing  all  kinds  of  soups,  fish,  oysters, 
terrapins,  turtle,  vegetables,  meats,  poultry,  game,  sauces,  pickles, 
sweet  meats,  cakes,  pies,  puddings,  confectionery,  rice,  Indian  meal 
preparations  of  all  kinds,  domestic  liquors,  perfumery,  remedies, 
laundry-work,  needle-work,  letters,  additional  receipts,  etc.  Also, 
list  of  articles  suited  to  go  together  for  breakfasts,  dinners,  and  sup- 
pers, and  much  useful  information  and  many  miscellaneous  subjects 
connected  with  general  house-wifery.  It  is  an  elegantly  printed  duo- 
decimo volume  of  520  pages;  and  in  it  there  will  be  found  One  Thou- 
sand and  Eleven  new  Receipts — all  useful— some  ornamental— and  all 
invaluable  to  every  lady,  miss,  or  family  in  the  world.  This  work  has 
had  a  very  extensive  sale,  and  many  thousand  copies  have  been  sold, 
and  the  demand  is  increasing  yearly,  being  the  most  complete  work 
of  the  kind  published  in  the  world,  and  also  the  latest  and  best,  a*, 
in  addition  to  Cookery,  its  receipts  for  making  cakes  and  confec- 
tionery are  unequalled  by  any  other  work  extant.  New  edition,  en- 
larged and  improved,  and  handsomely  bound.  Price  One  Dollar  a 
copy  only.  This  is  the  only  now  Cook  Book  by  Miss  Leslie. 

GEORGE  SANDS'  WORKS. 

FIRST  AND  TRUE  LOVE.  A  True  Love  Story.  By  George  Sand, 
author  of  '•  Consuelo,"  "  Indiana,"  etc.  It  is  one  of  the  most  charm- 
ing and  interesting  works  ever  published.  Illustrated.  Price  51.  cenU. 

INDIANA.  By  George  Sand,  author  of  "  First  and  True  Lore."  eto. 
A  very  bewitching  and  interesting  work.  Price  50  ceuta. 

THE  CORSAIR.    A  Venetian  Tale.     Price  25  cents. 


12     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 

HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

WITH  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  BARLEY  AND  OTHERS, 

AND  BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUMINATED  COVERS. 

We  have  just  published  new  and  beautiful  editions  of  the  following 
HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS.  They  are  published  in  the  best 
possible  style,  full  of  original  Illustrations,  by  Barley,  descriptive  of  all  the 
best  scenes  in  each  work,  with  Illuminated  Covers,  with  new  and  beautiful 
designs  on  each,  and  are  printed  on  the  finest  and  best  of  white  paper. 
There  are  no  works  to  compare  with  them  in  point  of  wit  and  humor,  in 
the  whole  world.  The  price  of  each  work  is  Fifty  cents  only. 

THE  FOLLOWING  ARE  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  WORKS. 

MAJOR  JONES'  COURTSHIP :  detailed,  with  other  Scenes,  Incidents, 
and  Adventures,  in  a  Series  of  Letters,  by  himself.  With  Thirteen 
Illustrations  from  designs  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

DRAMA   IN  POKERVILLE:    the  Bench  and  Bar  of  Jurytown,  and 

other   Stories.     By   "Everpoint,"     (J.  M.    Field,    of  the   St.  Louis 

Reveille.)     With  Illustrations  from  designs  by  Darley.     Fifty  cents. 
CHARCOAL  SKETCHES ;  or,  Scenes  in  the  Metropolis.     By  Joseph  C. 

Neal,  author  of  "  Peter  Ploddy,"  "  Misfortunes  of  Peter  Faber,"  etc. 

With  Illustrations.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
YANKEE   AMONGST    THE    MERMAIDS,   and  other  Waggeries  and 

Vagaries.      By   W.   E.  Burton,    Comedian.     With   Illustrations   by 

Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
MISFORTUNES   OF   PETER   FABER,  and  other  Sketches.      By  the 

author  of  "Charcoal   Sketches."    With  Illustrations  by  Darley  and 

others.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
MAJOR  JONES'  SKETCHES   OF   TRAVEL,  comprising  the   Scenes, 

Incidents,  and   Adventures   in   his  Tour  from    Georgia   to    Canada. 

With  Eight  Illustrations  from  Designs  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
STREAKS  OF  SQUATTER  LIFE,  and  Far  West  Scenes.     A  Series  of 

humorous  Sketches,  descriptive  of  Incidents  and  Character  in   the 

Wild  West.     By  the  author  of  "Major  Jones'  Courtship,"  "  Swallow. 

ing  Oysters  Alive,"  etc.     With  Illustrations  from  designs  by  Darley. 

Price  Fifty  cents. 
QUARTER   RACE   IN   KENTUCKY,  AND    OTHER  STORIES.      By 

W.  T.  Porter,  Esq.,  of  the  New  York  Spirit  of  the  Times.     With 

Eight  Illustrations  and  designs  by  Darley.     Complete  in  one  volume. 

Price  Fifty  cents. 
SIMON  SUGGS.— ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SIMON  SUGGS,  late 

of  the  Tallapoosa  Volunteers,  together  with  "Taking  the  Census," 

and  other  Alabama  Sketches.    By  a  Country  Editor.   With  a  Portrait 

from  Life,  and  Nine  other  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
RIVAL  BELLES.     By  J.  B.  Jones,  author  of  "Wild  Western  Scenes," 

etc.     This  is  a  very  humorous  and  entertaining  work,  and  one  that 

will  be  recommended  by  all  after  reading  it     Price  Fifty  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     13 
HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

YANKEE  YARNS  AND  YANKEE  LETTERS.  By  Sam  Slick,  alias 
Judge  Haliburtuu.  Full  of  the  drolle.-t  humor  that  ha?  ever  emanated 
from  the  pen  of  any  author.  Every  page  will  set  you  in  a  roar. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  COL.  VAXDERBOMB,  AND  THE 
EXPLOITS  OF  HIS  PRIVATE  SECRETARY.  By  J.  B.  Jones, 
author  of  "  The  Rival  Belles,"  "  Wild  Western  Scenes,"  etc.  Price 
Fifty  cents. 

BIG  BEAR  OF  ARKANSAS,  and  other  Sketches,  illustrative  of  Charac- 
ters and  Incidents  in  the  South  and  South-West.  Edited  by  Win.  T. 
Porter.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MAJOR  JONES'  CHRONICLES  OF  PINEVILLE;  embracing  Sketches 
of  Georgia  Scenes,  Incidents,  and  Characters.  By  the  author  of 
"Major  Jones'  Courtship,"  etc.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price 
Fifty  cents. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  PERCIVAL  MABERRY.  By  J.  H. 
Ingraham.  It  will  interest  and  please  everybody.  All  who  enjoy  a 
good  laugh  should  get  it  at  once.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  QUORXDOX  HOUNDS;  or,  A  Virginian  at 
Melton  Mowbray.  By  H.  W.  Herbert,  Esq.  With  Illustrations. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

PICKINGS  FROM  THE  PORTFOLIO  OF  THE  REPORTER  OF  THE 
"NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE."  Comprising  Sketches  of  the 
Eastern  Yankee,  the  Western  Hoosier,  and  such  others  as  make  up 
society  in  the  great  Metropolis  of  the  South.  With  Illustrations  by 
Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  SHOOTING  BOX.  By  the  author  of  "The 
Quorndon  Hounds,"  "  The  Deer  Stalkers,"  etc.  With  Illustrations  by 
Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

STRAY  SUBJECTS  ARRESTED  AND  BOUND  OVER;  being  the 
Fugitive  Offspring  of  the  "  Old  Un"  and  the  "Young  Un,"  that  have 
been  "  Laying  Around  Loose,"  and  are  now  "  tied  up"  for  fast  keep- 
ing. With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  DEER  STALKERS;  a  Tale  of  Circumstantial 
evidence.  By  the  author  of  "My  Shooting  Box,"  "The  Quorndon 
Hounds,"  etc.  With  Illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  FARRAGO.  By  Hon.  H.  H.  Bracken- 
ridge.  For  Sixteen  years  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Supremo  Court  of 
the  State  of  Pennsylvania.  With  Illustrations  from  designs  by  Darley 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  CHARMS  OF  PARIS ;  or,  Sketches  of  Travel  and  Adventures  by 
Night  and  Day,  of  a  Gentleman  of  Fortune  and  Leisure.  From  his 
private  journal.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

PETER  PLODDY,  and  other  oddities.  By  the  author  of  "Charcoal 
Sketches,"  "Peter  Faber,"  Ac.  With  Illustrations  from  original 
designs,  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

WIDOW  RUGBY'S  HUSBAND,  a  Night  at  the  Ugly  Man's,  and  other 
Tales  of  Alabama.  By  author  of  "  Simon  Suggs."  With  original 
Illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 


14     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

MAJOR  O'REGAN'S  ADVENTURES.  By  Hon.  H.  H.  Brackenridge. 
With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

SOL.  SMITH ;  THEATRICAL  APPRENTICESHIP  AND  ANECDOTAL 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  SOL.  SMITH,  Esq.,  Comedian,  Lawyer, 
etc.  Illustrated  by  Darley.  Containing  Early  Scenes,  Wanderings 
in  the  West,  Cincinnati  in  Early  Life,  etc.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

SOL.  SMITH'S  NEW  BOOK;  THE  THEATRICAL  JOURNEY-WORK 
AND  ANECDOTAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  SOL.  SMITH,  Esq., 
with  a  portrait  of  Sol.  Smith.  It  comprises  a  Sketch  of  the  second 
Seven  years  of  his  professional  life,  together  with  some  Sketches  of 
Adventure  in  after  years.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

POLLY  PEABLOSSOM'S  WEDDING,  and  other  Tales.  By  the  author 
of  "Major  Jones'  Courtship,"  "  Streaks  of  Squatter  Life,"  etc.  Price 
Fifty  cents. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  WARWICK  WOODLANDS;  or,  Things  as 
they  were  Twenty  Years  Ago.  By  the  author  of  "  The  Quorndon 
Hounds-,"  "My  Shooting  Box,"  "The  Deer  Stalkers,"  etc.  With 
Illustrations,  illuminated.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

LOUISIANA  SWAMP  DOCTOR.  By  Madison  Tensas,  M.  D.,  Ex.  V.  P. 
M.  S.  U.  Ky.  Author  of  "  Cupping  on  the  Sternum."  With  Illustra- 
tions by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents.  ' 

NEW  ORLEANS  SKETCH  BOOK,  by  "Stahl,"  author  of  the  "Port- 
folio  of  a  Southern  Medical  Student"  With  Illustrations  from 
designs  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

FRENCH,  GERMAN,  SPANISH,  LATIN,  AND 
ITALIAN  LANGUAGES. 

Any  person  unacquainted  with  either  of  the  above  languages,  can,  with 
the  aid  of  these  works,  be  enabled  to  read,  write  and  speak  the  language  of 
either,  without  the  aid  of  a  teacher  or  any  oral  instruction  whatever,  pro- 
vided they  pay  strict  attention  to  the  instructions  laid  down  in  each  book, 
and  that  nothing  shall  be  passed  over,  without  a  thorough  investigation 
of  the  subject  it  involves  :  by  doing  which  they  will  be  able  to  speak,  rend 
or  write  either  language,  at  their  will  and  pleasure.    Either  of  these  works 
is  invaluable  to  any  persons  wishing  to  learn  these  languages,  and  are 
worth   to   any  one  One  Hundred  times  their  cost     These  works   have 
already  run  through  several  large  editions  in  this  country,  for  no  person 
ever  buys  one  without  recommending  it  to  his  friends. 
FRENCH  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 
GERMAN  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 
SPANISH  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Four  Easy  Lessons. 
ITALIAN  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Five  Easy  Lessons. 
LATIN   WITHOUT  A  MASTER.      In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 
Price  of  either  of  the  above  Works,  separate,  25  cents  each — or  the 
whole  five  may  be  had  for  One  Dollar,  and  will  be  sent  free  of  pottage  to 
any  one  on  their  remitting  that  amount  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     15 
WORKS  BY  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

FLIRTATIONS  IN  AMERICA;  OR  HIGH  LIFE  IX  NEW  YORK.  A 
capital  book.  285  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

DON  QUIXOTTE.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
DON  QUIXOTTE  DE  LA  MANCHA,  and  his  Squire  Saucho  Panza, 
with  all  the  original  notes.  300  pages.  Price  75  cents. 

WILD  SPORTS  IN  THE  WEST.  By  W.  II.  Maxwell,  author  of  «  Pic- 
torial Life  and  Adventures  of  Grace  O'Malley."  Price  50  cents. 

THE  ROMISH  CONFESSIONAL  ;  or,  the  Auricular  Confession  and  Spi- 
ritual direction  of  the  Romish  Church.  Its  History,  Consequences, 
and  policy  of  the  Jesuits.  By  M.  Michelet.  Price  50  cents. 

GENEVRA;  or,  the  History  of  a  Portrait.  By  Miss  Fairfield,  one  of  tho 
best  writers  in  America.  200  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

WILD  OATS  SOWN  ABROAD  ;  OR,  ON  AND  OFF  SOUNDINGS.  It 
is  the  Private  Journal  of  a  Gentleman  of  Leisure  and  Education,  and 
of  a  highly  cultivated  mind,  in  making  the  tour  of  Europe.  It  shows 
up  all  the  High  and  Low  Life  to  be  found  in  all  the  fashionable  re- 
sorts in  Paris  Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth,  gilt. 

SALATHIEL;  OR,  THE  WANDERING  JEW.  By  Rev.  George  Croly. 
One  of  the  best  and  most  world-wide  celebrated  books  that  has  ever 
been  printed.  Price  50  cents. 

LLORENTE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  INQUISITION  IN  SPAIN.  Only 
edition  published  in  this  country.  Price  50  cents;  or  handsomely 
bound  in  muslin,  gilt,  price  75  cents. 

DR.  ROLLICK'S  NEW  BOOK.  ANATOMY  AND  PHYSIOLOGY, 
with  a  large  dissected  plate  of  the  Human  Figure,  colored  to  Life. 
By  the  celebrated  Dr.  Hollick,  author  of  "The  Family  Physician," 
"  Origin  of  Life,"  etc.  Price  One  Dollar. 

DR.  ROLLICK'S  FAMILY  PHYSICIAN;  OR,  THE  TRUE  ART  OF 
HEALING  THE  SICK.  A  book  that  should  be  in  the  house  of 
every  family.  It  is  a  perfect  treasure.  Price  25  cents. 

MYSTERIES  OF  THREE  CITIES.  Boston,  New  York,  and  Philadel- 
phia. Revealing  the  secrets  of  society  in  these  various  cities.  All 
should  read  it.  By  A.  J.  H.  Duganne.  200  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

BED  INDIANS  OF  NEWFOUNDLAND.  A  beautifully  illustrated  In- 
dian  Story,  by  the  author  of  the  "  Prairie  Bird."  Price  50  cents. 

HARRIS'S  ADVENTURES  IN  AFRICA.  This  book  is  a  rich  treat 
Two  volumes.  Price  One  Dollar,  or  handsomely  bound,  $1  50. 

THE  PETREL;  OR,  LOVE  ON  THE  OCEAN.  A  sea  novel  equal  to  th 
best.  By  Admiral  Fisher.  200  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

ARISTOCRACY,  OR  LIFE  AMONG  THE  "UPPER  TEN."  A  true 
novel  of  fashionable  life.  By  J.  A.  Nunes,  Esq.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  CABIN  AND  PARLOR.  By  J.  Thornton  Randolph.  It  is 
beautifully  illustrated.  Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover  ;  or  a  finer  edu 
tion,  printed  on  thicker  and  better  paper,  and  handsomely  bound  m 
muslin,  gilt,  is  published  for  One  Dollar. 

LIFE   IN   THE   SOUTH.     A  companion  to  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."    By 
C.  H.  Wiley.     Beautifully  illustrated  from  original  desigus  by  Va 
ley.     Price  50  cents. 


16     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS  BY  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

SKETCHES  IN  IRELAND.  By  William  M.  Thackeray,  author  of 
"Vanity  Fair,"  "History  of  Pendennis,"  etc.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  ROMAN  TRAITOR;  OR.  THE  DAYS  OF  CAT  ALINE  AND 
CICERO.  By  Henry  William  Herbert.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful  Roman  stories  in  the  English  language,  and  is  of  itself  suffi- 
cient to  stamp  the  writer  as  a  powerful  man.  Complete  in  two  large 
volumes,  of  over  250  pages  each,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or 
bound  in  one  volunue,  cloth,  for  $1  25. 

THE  LADY'S  WORK-TABLE  BOOK.  Full  of  plates,  designs,  diagrams, 
and  illustrations  to  learn  all  kinds  of  needlework.  A  work  every 
Lady  should  possess.  Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover;  or  bound  in 
crimson  cloth,  gilt,  for  75  cents. 

THE  COQUETTE.  One  of  the  best  books  ever  written.  One  volume,  oc- 
tavo, over  200  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

WHITEFRIARS;  OR,  THE  DAYS  OF  CHARLES  THE  SECOND.  An 
Historical  Romance.  Splendidly  illustrated  with  original  designs,  by 
Chapin.  It  is  the  best  historical  romance  published  for  years.  Price 
50  cents. 

WHITEHALL;  OR,  THE  TIMES  OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  By  the 
author  of  "  Whitefriars."  It  is  a  work  which,  for  just  popularity  and 
intensity  of  interest,  has  not  been  equalled  since  the  publication  of 
"  Waverly."  Beautifully  illustrated.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  SPITFIRE.  A  Nautical  Romance.  By  Captain  Chamier,  author 
of  "  Life  and  Adventures  of  Jack  Adams."  Illustrated.  Price  50  cents. 

UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  AS  IT  IS.  One  large  volume,  illustrated, 
bound  in  cloth.  Price  $1  25. 

FATHER  CLEMENT.  By  Grace  Kennady,  author  of  "Dunallen," 
"  Abbey  of  Innismoyle,"  etc.  A  beautiful  book.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  ABBEY  OF  INNISMOYLE.  By  Grace  Kennady,  author  of  "Fa- 
ther  Clement."  Eoual  to  any  of  her  former  works.  Price  25  cents. 

THE  FORTUNE  HUNTER;  a  novel  of  New  York  society,  Upper  and 
Lower  Tendom.  By  Mrs.  Anna  Cora  Mowatt  Price  38  cents. 

POCKET  LIBRARY  OF  USEFUL  KNOWLEDGE.  New  and  enlarged 
edition,  with  numerous  engravings.  Twenty  thousand  copies  sold. 
We  have  never  seen  a  volume  embracing  any  thing  like  the  same 
quantity  of  useful  matter.  The  work  is  really  a  treasure.  It  should 
speedily  find  its  way  into  every  family.  It  also  contains  a  large  and 
entirely  new  Map  of  the  United  States,  with  full  page  portraits  of 
the  Presidents  of  the  United  States,  from  Washington  until  the  pre- 
sent time,  executed  in  the  finest  style  of  the  art.  Price  50  cents  a 
copy  only. 

HENRY  CLAY'S  PORTRAIT.  Nagle's  correct,  full-length  Mezzotinto 
Portrait,  and  only  true  likeness  ever  published  of  the  distinguished 
Statesman.  Engraved  by  Sartain.  Size,  22  by  30  inches.  Price 
$1  00  a  copy  only.  Originally  sold  at  $5  00  a  copy. 

THE  MISER'S  HEIR;  OR,  THE  YOUNG  MILLIONAIRE.  A  story 
of  a  Guardian  and  his  Ward.  A  prize  novel.  By  P.  H.  Myers,  author 
of  the  "  Emigrant  Squire."  Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cent! 
in  cloth,  gilt. 


OEM^INDUCEMENTS  J"OBL1856j 

]  NOW  IS  TH€  TIME  TO  MAKE  uFmJBST 

PETERSONS  MAGAZINE 

The  best  and  cheapest  in  the  World  for  Ladies. 


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Will  be  greatly  improved  for  1856.  It  will  contain  900  pages  of  double-column  reading 
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all  the  most  popular  female  writers  of  America.  New  talent  is  continually  being  added, 
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ITS  COLORED  FASHION  PLATES  IN  ADVANCE, 


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PATTERNS  FOR  CROTCHET,  NEEDLEWORK,  etc., 

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OUT  " Port-Folio  of  Art,"  containing  Fifti/  Engravings,  will  be  given  gratis;  or.  If  pre- 
ferred, a  copy  of  the  Magazine  for  18.V>.  For  a  Club  of  (sixteen,  en  extra  copy  of  the 
Magazine  for  1856,  will  be  sent  in  addition. 

Addres*,  post-paid,  CHARLES   J,   PETERSON, 

No.  lOa  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 

OS-  Specimens  sent,  gratuitously,  if  written  for,  post-paid. 

"~*S^All  Postmasters  constituted  Agents.    But  any  person  may  get  up  a  Cl  Jb. 

JtS~  Persons  remitting  will  please  get  the  Postmaster  to  register  their  letter*,  in  whwb 
case  the  remittance  may  be  at  our  risk.  When  the  sum  is  large,  a  draft  should  b»  pw 
lured,  the  cost  of  which  may  be  deducted  from  the  amount 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S 

WHOLESALE  AND  RETAIL 
Cheap  Book,  Magazine,  Newspaper,  Publishing 

and  Bookselling  Establishment,  is  at 
No.   103   Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  has  the  satisfaction  to  announce  to  the  public,  that  he  has  removed 
to  the  new  and  spacious  BROWN  STONE  BUILDING,  NO.  102  CHESTNUT  STREET, 
just  completed  by  the  city  authorities  on  the  Girard  Estate,  known  as  the  most  central 
and  best  situation  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  As  it  is  the  Model  Book  Store  of  the 
Country,  we  will  describe  it :  It  is  the  largest,  most  spacious,  and  best  arranged  Retail 
and  Wholesale  Cheap  Book  and  Publishing  Establishment  in  the  United  States.  It  is 
built,  by  the  Girard  Estate,  of  Connecticut  sand-stone,  in  a  richly  ornamental  style. 
The  whole  front  of  the  lower  story,  except  that  taken  up  by  the  doorway,  is  occupied  by 
two  large  plate  glass  windows,  a  single  plate  to  each  window,  costing  together  over  three 
thousand  dollars.  On  entering  and  looking  up,  you  find  above  you  a  ceiling  sixteen 
leet  high ;  while,  on  gazing  before,  you  perceive  a  vista  of  One  Hundred  and  Fifty-Seven 
feet.  The  retail  counters  extend  back  for  eighty  feet,  and,  being  double,  afford  counter- 
room  of  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  feet  in  length.  There  is  also  over  Three,  Thousand  feet 
of  shelving  in  the  retail  part  of  the  store  alone.  This  part  is  devoted  to  the  retail  busi- 
ness, and  as  it  is  the  most  spacious  in  the  country,  furnishes  also  the  best  and  largest 
assortment  of  alt  kinds  of  books  to  be  found  in  the  country.  It  is  fitted  up  in  the  most 
superb  style ;  the  shelvings  are  all  painted  in  Florence  white,  with  gilded  cornices  for 
the  book  shelves. 

Behind  the  retail  part  of  the  store,  at  about  ninety  feet  from  the  entrance,  is  tie 
ccunting-room,  twenty  feet  square,  railed  neatly  off,  and  surmounted  by  a  most  beauti- 
ful dome  of  stained  glass.  In  the  rear  of  this  is  the  wholesale  and  packing  department, 
extending  a  further  distance  of  about  sixty  feet,  with  desks  and  packing  counters  for  the 
establishment,  etc.,  etc.  All  goods  are  received  and  shipped  from  the  back  of  the  store, 
having  a  fine  avenue  on  the  side  of  Girard  Bank  for  the  purpose,  leading  out  to  Third 
Street,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  and  block  up  the  front  of  the  store  on  Chestnut  Street. 
The  cellar,  of  the  entire  depth  of  the  store,  is  filled  with  printed  copies  of  Mr.  Peterson's 
own  publications,  printed  from  his  own  stereotype  plates,  of  which  he  generally  keeps 
on  hand  an  edition  of  a  thousand  each,  making  a  stock,  of  his  own  publications  alone, 
if  over  three  hundred  thousand  volumes,  constantly  on  hand. 

T.  B.  -PETERSON  is  warranted  in  saying,  that  he  is  able  to  offer  such  inducements 
to  the  Trade,  and  all  others,  to  favor  him  with  their  orders,  as  cannot  be  excelled  by  any 
book  establishment  in  the  country.  In  proof  of  this,  T.  B.  PETERSON  begs  leave  to 
refer  to  his  great  facilities  of  getting  stock  of  all  kinds,  his  dealing  direct  with  all  the 
Publtehing  Houses  in  the  country,  and  also  to  his  own  long  list  of  Publications,  consisting 
of  the  best  and  most  popular  productions  of  the  most  talented  authors  of  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain,  and  to  his  very  extensive  stock,  embracing  every  work,  new  or 
old,  published  in  the  United  States. 

T.  B.  PETERSON  will  be  most  happy  to  supply  all  orders  for  any  books  at  all,  no 
matter  by  whom  published,  in  advance  of  all  others,  and  at  publishers'  lowest  cash 
prices.  He  respectfully  invites  Country  Merchants,  Booksellers,  Pedlars,  Canvassers, 
Agents,  the  Trade,  Strangers  in  the  city,  and  the  public  generally,  to  call  and  examine 
his  extensive  collection  of  cheap  and  standard  publications  of  all  kinds,  comprising  a 
most  magnificent  collection  of  CHEAP  BOOKS,  MAGAZINES,  NOVELS,  STANDARD 
and  POPULAR  WORKS  of  all  kinds,  BIBLES,  PRAYER  BOOKS,  ANNUALS,  GIFT 
BOOKS,  ILLUSTRATED  WORKS,  ALBUMS  and  JUVENILE  WORKS  of  all  kinds, 
GAMES  of  all  kinds,  to  suit  all  ages,  tas-tes,  etc.,  which  he  is  selling  to  his  customers 
and  the  public  at  much  lower  prices  than  they  can  be  purchased  elsewhere.  Being  lo- 
cated at  No.  102  CHESTNUT  Street,  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  and  BUYING 
bis  stock  outright  in  large  quantities,  and  not  selling  on  commission,  he  can  and  will 
sell  them  on  such  terms  as  will  defy  all  competition.  Call  and  examine  our  stock,  you 
will  find  it  to  be  the  best,  largest  and  cheapest  in  the  city ;  and  you  will  also  be  sure  to 
find  all  the  best,  latest,  popular,  and.  cheapest  works  published  in  this  country  or  else- 
where, for  sale  at  the  lowest  prices. 

Jt££~  Call  in  person  and  examine  our  stock,  or  send  your  orders  by  mail  direct,  to  the 
CHEAP  BOOKSELLING  and  PUBLISHING  ESTABLISHMENT  of 

T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  102  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 
32 


A     000  033  204 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


"hone  R 
310/82 


-9188 


